


Post-Mortem

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Yikes, and thranduil obliges, for which i do not apologise, i did not achieve what i wanted but it's alright i guess, i wanted that horror vibe to be there but not for it to be actually scary, in which bard is poor and in desperate need of somewhere to live, it's a weird mix between period drama/horror/mystery/general romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts don't haunt houses, they haunt people. Thranduil is burdened by a past he fears he will never let go, but Bard is determined to help him overcome his grief. And perhaps make friends with the ghosts while he's at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettypaperdoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettypaperdoll/gifts).



> It is with great pleasure that I present this fic to [Jordan](http://gamoraaaaa.tumblr.com/) ([prettypaperdoll](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettypaperdoll/profile)) as their gift for the Barduil Secret Santa!  
> I hope you like this story, and I hope everyone else who reads it does as well!

Bard was sceptical; of this he was certain. But he was also desperate, and a desperate man such as himself was in no position to reject an opportunity when it was presented to him - however grim it appeared to be

    "I wouldn't be telling you about this at all if it there was nothing else," Elrond said, eyeing Bard sympathetically. "But you're a determined sort of bloke, so I'm going to give you – and the landlord – the benefit of the doubt and hope it doesn't go pear-shaped… again."

    "I'm not sure I understand," said Bard, attempting to peer across the desk to the computer screen in front of the real estate agent.

    "The previous tenants have had... disagreements with the landlord,” said Elrond evasively.

    "Oh?"

    "He's not exactly a likeable man. Well, I like him, but that's because I know him, but if you don't know him, you won't like him." Elrond paused, allowing himself a sigh. "But he will take you in spite of your poor references. He doesn’t often get tenants, and it's starting to make him look bad."

    Bard shrugged. "Well, I like him already if he's willing to take us."

    "I'll call him now."

    Bard waited. In the small office of the real estate agency, he sat and his children watched anxiously at his shoulder. Tilda who was eight, and Sigrid who was twelve, and Bain who was thirteen, and all three of whom had already seen too much hardship. He felt Sigrid’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it every few seconds for reassurance. Bard kept his own hands very tense in his lap, preparing himself for more bad news. It was all he was used to hearing these days.

    "It's Elrond. I have a guy here interested in your place."

    Elrond paused, listening into the telephone.

    "Three kids. No, no pets. Okay. Yes. Yes, alright. How soon can you have it ready? Tomorrow? Oh, good. Alright, goodbye." He hung up, turning to face Bard again. "He's accepted. Would you like to see the place?"

    Bard nodded eagerly, leaning forward again. Elrond tilted the computer screen towards him.

    "You'll be up here. Thranduil - the landlord - lives on the lower two levels, but the third floor is quite spacious, even for four people. It’s been refurbished into a flat. See?"

    Bard stared at the slideshow of photos. "Surely he isn't renting such a place for anything less than a thousand?"

    "I'm afraid he is. Aside from Thranduil being a disagreeable person, the house has a history that makes it less desirable, so it forces him to lower the rent - not that really matters to him."

    “What kind of history?”

    There was a pause, in which the hum of the computer reverberated in the room and, outside, people could be heard haggling prices. Elrond watched Bard for a moment. He sighed again.

    “His wife died several years ago on the third floor. That’s why he rents it out.”

    Bard blanched a little, feeling a stab of empathy at the memory of his own wife’s death.  

    “Where did she die?” He didn’t _mind_ that someone had died, but he couldn’t say he fancied sleeping in the room where it happened.

    “She fell. From the balcony. It's boarded up, but it puts people off all the same. It’s not nice living in a house where someone has died, but I trust you don’t object?”

    Bard shook his head quickly. “No. If it’s cheap, I’ll take it. What’s the cost?”

    "It's seven-hundred and fifty for the initial deposit and the first month's rent, and then it's three hundred every month preceding."

    Bard raised both eyebrows. 

    "It's not quite as grand as you think,” Elrond went on, catching the incredulous look on Bard’s face. “The house is very old. All the other tenants were demanding a cheaper price before their first week."

    "Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

    Elrond was clicking on the computer now. “That’s all, really. Thranduil keeps mostly to himself, so you’ll be left alone. He asks only that you keep the flat clean and the noise level to a minimum.”

    “What does he do?” asked Bard, trying to get a mental image of his future landlord.

    “By trade, he’s a pathologist, but he comes from old money,” Elrond replied absently. “Sign this please.”

    He handed Bard a sheet of paper that had just come out of the printer. Bard accepted a pen and scrawled his signature where Elrond indicated.

    “Do you want to pay the deposit now?”

    “Okay.”

    They left the small office and went into the foyer. Bard’s children tailed their father like ducklings. They were all very tired, having been dragged out of bed very early at Elrond's insistence over the telephone. Tilda was half-asleep on her feet, holding her brother’s hand and clutching a small backpack to her chest. Sigrid was apprehensive as Bard handed over his bank card to pay the deposit. They didn’t have much money left.

    “Da, how will you pay for rent without work?” she whispered.

    “I’ll have to find some, won’t I?” Bard said with a confidence he did not feel.

    His card cleared, and Bard signed another paper. He thanked Elrond and drove back to the motel he and his children were currently staying at, watching the car's fuel gauge creep closer and closer to ‘empty.’ Hopefully he would have enough to drive to the house tomorrow.

    Living in a motel for just two weeks was enough to show Bard just how much mess his family could make. In a valiant attempt to pack everything into boxes and shopping bags to move the following morning, he found Bain’s shoes hanging from the balcony and Sigrid’s clothes crammed into the sofa cushions. The better part of the afternoon was lost to feeling into every nook and cranny of the motel rooms while Bain, Sigrid and Tilda foraged and ate what was left of the food so as to save themselves the effort of packing it.

    It was a bleack situation, to say the least, but Bard tried to stay optimistic, for his kids if not himself. They would no longer have to jump from motel to motel just to stay on their feet, or take the bus to school because the car was out of fuel. If Bard was quick to find a steady job and the new house proved as promising as it looked (and he did indeed find it promising), then things could finally go back to normal. Well, as normal as could be said for Bard and his family.

 

    The house was far more formidable in person than on a computer screen. And ‘house’ wasn’t quite the right word to describe it, either. Trundling through dark, wrought iron gates and up a wide, sweeping driveway, Bard’s first instinct was to call it a castle. It was three storeys of heavy brick and towering buttresses with algae-covered, but still magnificent water fountain at front entrance. Ivy clung to the walls and crept in through the sash windows, and a dark forest flanked the building. Bard wouldn’t have been surprised to hear tell of ghosts and spirits in the house in addition to the balcony death and a lonely widower.

    As he parked the car outside the front steps, Bard caught sight of something moving behind one of the curtained windows on the second floor. Shaking himself of what he could only describe as the heebie-jeebies, he got out of the car.

    The children climbed out as well, staring up at the house in awe. Tilda clung to her father’s coat, trembling slightly.

    “This place is haunted, for sure,” Bain moaned.

    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bard reprimanded. “I’m sure it’s much nicer inside.”

    “Ten quid says it’s not.”

    The front door opened just as Bard popped the boot, which was crammed to bursting with possessions. He lost himself for a moment, staring at his new landlord on the threshold. He had been under the impression that Thranduil was an elderly man; an old and bitter widower whose aged wife had lost her balance on the balcony. But he was young… too young to have lost a wife several years ago, and too young to be hidden away in the woods inside an old, decrepit manor.

    Thranduil contrasted the house quite alarmingly with his long, silver-blonde hair and soft attire, though he was no less formidable. He definitely looked like he belonged to old money. His rigid, haughty stance and the way he observed Bard with a steely glare all indicated an aristocratic upbringing. Bard attempted to match Thranduil’s absurd height when they went to shake hands, but failed miserably. Up close, he thought Thranduil was quite handsome, but the sadness in his eyes seemed to spoil him, like a crack in a fine statue. For a moment, Bard wondered if he saw something shift behind them, but it was probably just the sunlight peering out from behind a cloud.

    “I’m Bard,” said Bard, his heart jumping to his throat. “This is Bain, and Tilda, and Sigrid.”

    Thranduil merely nodded, and he led the way inside. Bard followed, ushering his children ahead.

    “You owe me ten quid, da.”

    Bard rolled his eyes at his son, and then cast them around the entrance hall. It was indeed a bit off-putting. The wallpaper was dark and peeling in the corners, and unlit chandeliers loomed above, waiting to come crashing down upon unwary heads.

    There was a carpeted staircase that led up to the second floor, and then across its landing was another one to the third floor. Bard spotted an old elevator, however, and he studied it hopefully.

    “It doesn’t work,” said Thranduil, catching Bard’s expression.

    “Oh.”

    For all its creaky steps and windows that wouldn’t open, Bard thought the manor still held a certain amount of charm. It was very spacious and nicely aired by the high windows (the ones that could be opened, anyway). Thick, golden ropes held back dark, embroidered curtains to let sunshine come through. Bard wondered if Thranduil did this to somehow ward off the eerie feeling of the building.

    It was not entirely achieved. The dark interior and the blinding light from outside just made it feel other-worldly. Each shaft of light cast disturbing shadows and stepping through them was like entering flickers of dream.

    The flat on the third floor was exactly how it looked in the pictures Elrond had shown Bard on the computer. The furniture was old, but well-cared for, and Bard eyed the flat-screen television greedily.       

    They were not given a proper tour. Thranduil stood rooted to the spot by the stairs, looking very uncomfortable. Bard did not comment on this, as the heavy and obvious presence of the boarded-up balcony was explanation enough. He adjusted his position so that Thranduil might keep his back to it.

    He showed Bard how to use the phone and provided the password for the wireless. He also cautioned against the fireplace, because the damper had a bad habit of getting stuck, and the shower, which could run cold water for up to sixty seconds in winter before becoming warm.

    “Here is a copy of the house key; it opens all doors, but you won’t generally find them locked. This is the remote for the garage; it’s a little further down the driveway on the right and there’s a space inside for your car. The maid comes on Wednesdays, bins are on Fridays, and I implore you not to go near the elevator on the second floor as that is where it is stuck and I’m afraid too much movement around it will cause it to shift. You are free to roam the house and gardens as you wish. My only restriction is that you do not open any doors with ribbons on the handles. If you need me, I’ll be in the study by the library on the second floor.”

    And with a turn of his heel, Thranduil vanished down the stairs in a hurry.

    “Well he’s… intense,” said Bain reproachfully when he was certain Thranduil was out of earshot.

    “I think he’s quite reasonable,” said Sigrid.

    Bard was struck rather dumb.‘Disagreeable’ was not the word he would have chosen to describe Thranduil. The man seemed merely isolated and withdrawn, and he never met Bard’s eyes. Perhaps Bard was too empathetic towards him, but he couldn’t help it.

    “Come on, we’ll start unpacking,” he said unenthusiastically.

    It took most of the day. All that could be heard throughout the manor was the thumping of footsteps going upstairs and downstairs and the occasional grumble or muttered oath as a box broke or someone stumbled.

    Thranduil did not emerge from the study to offer any assistance, and while Bard didn’t blame him for it, he felt rather begrudging as he hauled box after box up to the flat, his legs seizing with each return trip.

    Still, it got done. The flat didn’t look all that different when the car was finally unpacked and parked next to a very shiny and expensive-looking Maserati in the garage. The wardrobes were lined with clothes and the bookshelves pointlessly filled with the few books and DVD’s they owned and the kitchen cupboards were set with old pots and pans and cutlery. Yet, despite being officially moved in, everything was still depressingly bare.

    “How long are we going to stay here, da?” Tilda asked as Bard put the kettle on for tea.

    “For as long as we can. This is our home now.”

    It didn’t really feel like it. But Bard consoled himself by knowing it was just the habit of moving around all the time that made actually moving in somewhere feel less permanent than it was. He felt bad that Tilda didn’t believe that this was their home now.

    “It’s weird that this guy lives here all by himself. You’d think he would have sold the place considering his wife died here,” Bain remarked, casting a wary glance to the boarded-up balcony door.

    Bard grimaced. “Sometimes it’s hard to leave a place you’ve always been rooted to. Elrond said Thranduil is from old money, so this must be a family home. It’s probably full of history.”

    “By history, you mean ghosts, right?” said Bain, accepting tea from his father.

    Bard scowled, but did not retort, unable to contradict Bain. He had noticed that many shadows in the house were... unaccounted for; there were too many dark patches on the floor or against the walls, and it wasn’t from the peeling wallpaper or curtains. Odd shapes seemed to flit and flutter throughout the house, playing tricks on the eye, and making Bard glance over his shoulder several times as he and his family moved in.

    Perhaps Thranduil did not live alone after all. Bard could sense the death that lingered here, but it wasn’t as prominent upstairs as it was downstairs, which was strange. It was almost as though it followed Thranduil around the house rather than confine itself to the balcony where it happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Bard’s first week living on the third floor of Thranduil’s house – Greenwood Manor, it was apparently called – was decidedly tedious. He spent some time getting to know the house, exploring the endless halls, but not going into any rooms or getting in Thranduil’s way, not that he was often home. Bard wasn’t brave enough to impose upon another’s life. He ventured instead into the neighbouring forest and walked the beautiful gardens that his own bedroom overlooked. He admired the view while it lasted; winter was finally beginning to creep under the doors and disgruntle him.

    Tilda, Bain and Sigrid all returned to school the day after they moved in. It was quite convenient for them, for the manor was closer to town than the motel. They took the winding, dirt road through the woods and the town was only a little further ahead of that.

    Bard went into the town often, keeping an eye and ear out for work, although such optimism seemed fruitless as there was only one local newspaper, and they had rejected Bard weeks ago. He asked after a few other jobs, but eventually fell back to circling ads in the paper.

    When he wasn’t walking or exploring, Bard tried to work on his novel, which he had been writing all year. It was his first attempt at a lengthy piece and it very rudely eluded him. When it failed to deliver any preoccupation, he sometimes resorted to watching Thranduil from the window of his study, which was small and had a good view of the gardens like his bedroom next door.

    Thranduil owned two dogs. Big, aggressive-looking creatures they were – one black, the other russet brown. When he wasn’t at work, Thranduil could be seen in the gardens playing fetch with them, or else tending to the roses with the playful Dobermans snapping at his heels and digging holes where they weren’t needed. Bard loved animals, but he didn’t have the confidence to approach the dogs. Thranduil was far too intimidating for such boldness.

    He did try initiating _some_ conversation with Thranduil, so that they might at least be civil, or even friendly, but whatever words they managed to exchange were generally for naught. At best, Thranduil was noncommittal and distracted and, at worst, he wasn’t around at all because he worked so frequently (or perhaps did other things. Bard couldn’t know what his extracurricular might entail, as they were not divulged). Bard wondered if he had always been this way, or if it was the house and the death of his wife that affected Thranduil so. He was stern and cold and toneless and, when he looked at Bard, it was like he was staring right through him, like he was just another ghost in the walls.

    Still, Bard couldn’t help but admire and respect Thranduil. He supposed it had a lot to do with the fact that Thranduil had agreed to lease the flat to Bard regardless of his lack of income and shocking recommendations from other landlords (which had been very unfairly given), but it was also because he couldn’t help but wonder at Thranduil’s beauty and mystery. A great loneliness seemed to pass over him at times when they exchanged rare conversation, and Bard felt drawn to it, for he understood it well.

    And, despite his few words and steely glances, Thranduil happened upon Bard quite frequently on the stairs. In fact, Bard was starting to think it wasn’t coincidence that Thranduil was always going down to the ground floor when Bard was returning to the flat, but his own humility prevented him from fully admitting it.

    “You are looking for work,” Thranduil said, catching Bard by surprise one day as he was heading back up from a walk. Thranduil himself was dressed for the unpleasant chill outside, wearing a thick black coat and boots.

    “Looking, not finding. No one will hire me,” Bard replied.

    “What do you do?”

    “I’m – well – I’m nothing.”

    “Surely you are something.”

    “I’m a writer.” Bard felt quite pathetic to pledge himself to such a title.

    “Have you published anything?” Thranduil looked curious.

    Bard blushed. “Just some short stories and poems. Mostly I write for magazines and newspapers, if they’ll have me, but it’s difficult to find editors who will actually pay you to write for them.”

    Thranduil stared at the ground for a moment, apparently lost in thought. “Yes, it must be,” he murmured.

    He continued down the stairs, leaving Bard by the bannister on the second floor.

    The pitter-patter of canine feet could be heard on the lower landing, followed by two excited barks. Very quietly, Bard crept down a few steps to have a look. The two Dobermans were jumping up and down, both attempting to lick Thranduil’s face. He was smiling, his face alight. He scolded them gently into stillness before opening the door to let them out. Then, with a swish of blonde hair, he disappeared into the afternoon cold.

    The phone was ringing when Bard entered the flat. He answered it, feeling apprehensive. Generally people called for Thranduil and Bard more often than not had to explain who he was and what he was doing there. But to his immense relief, it was Elrond calling to check in.

    “Not bad, actually. Better than I could have hoped for,” Bard said when Elrond asked how he was settling in.

    “Thranduil isn’t being too difficult?”

    “Er, no,” said Bard. He didn’t know why Elrond was bringing it up. How badly had Thranduil treated his previous tenants? He was perfectly friendly to Bard. Indifferent, yes, but polite and courteous. “Why do you keep saying that?”

    Elrond faltered. “I suppose I’m just expecting the worst from him again. But he’s being nice to you?”

    “Yes.”

    “Do you like him?”

    “I don’t know. He’s not what I thought he would be.”

    “He never is. But, if you’ve settled down okay, I’ll let you go.”

    “Sure. See you.”

    Bard hung up the phone, chewing his lip. He was curious of Thranduil; more curious than he wanted to admit. The man was completely baffling and, really, had no business being as handsome as he was. Bard caught himself staring more and more often, unable to tear his eyes away from Thranduil if ever their paths crossed.

    Footsteps charging up the stairs interrupted Bard’s sheepish confessions. Bain, Sigrid and Tilda were home from school, all of them pink-cheeked and breathless from the chilly walk through the forest.

    “We saw Thranduil on the way here!” Sigrid said excitedly as she started to remove layers of clothes. “He’s awfully nice, da.”

    “Is he?” said Bard, bending down to help Tilda with her coat buttons.

    “He let us play fetch with Emma and Eileen!” crowed his youngest, jumping up and down.

    _Strange names_ , Bard thought.

    “Is there anything to eat? I’m starving,” said Bain, kicking off his shoes at the landing.

    Bard set about making sandwiches for everyone, deciding he was hungry himself. He took his sandwich into the study, switching on his laptop in the hope to finally write a long overdue e-mail to his friend (and editor). He had barely started, however, when there was a knock on the door.

    Tilda was standing on the threshold, a strange expression on her face. She approached the desk and handed Bard a slip of paper.

    “Thranduil asked me to give this to you.”

    Bard raised an eyebrow, taking it. “He couldn’t come in and give it to me himself?”

    “I don’t think he likes coming up here,” said Tilda, and she left the room.

    Bard examined the slip of paper. In elegant, looped penmanship was a phone number and name, accompanied by the title of the local newspaper.

    Bard’s heart skipped several beats. Evidently Thranduil was quite well connected. Bard had already badgered this newspaper for work and they had flatly turned him down, but if Thranduil was providing a specific name and an entirely different phone number, perhaps Bard stood more of a chance…

    He picked up the phone on the desk and dialled, his heart beating very fast now.

    “Hello?”

    “Er, hi, is this… Haldir?”

    “Yeah.” The man on the phone had a deep, smooth voice.

    “My name’s Bard; Thranduil gave me your number.” Bard hoped this explanation would suffice, as he had little else to offer.

    “Did he? Are you a writer?” Haldir sounded eager now.

    “I guess.”

    “You guess? Christ… Are you looking for a job?”

    “Yes!”

    “Bring some of your work to the office tomorrow morning. And your National Insurance Number.”

    Haldir hung up the phone.

 

    Bard nervously donned his coat and gloves the next morning and went into town. He drove his kids to school and then crossed the street a few buildings away, approaching a grey, brick building alongside a shoemaker. He clutched a folder of his writing under his arm, wishing he had something better to show for his self-proclaimed profession.

    “Hi, I’m here to see Haldir,” he said to the dark, freckly girl at the front desk.

    “He’s through there,” she said, pointing a finely manicured finger down the hall. “Second door on the right.”

    Bard thanked her and headed down the hall to knock on the door. Just as he raised a fist, however, it flew open and a man stepped out, wrapping a scarf around his neck. He stopped short at the sight of Bard, staring at him with a very bleary expression.

    “Can I help you?” he asked, yawning into a gloved hand.

    “I’m Bard.”

    The man blinked, checked his watch, and then gave a small “oh.”

    “You’re Haldir?”

    “You know, when I said ‘morning,’ I actually meant midday,” said Haldir, side-stepping Bard and moving down the hall.

    “But – but you asked me to bring you my work,” said Bard, following him.

    “Oh, are you the new writer Thranduil sent over?” piped up the girl at the desk. “Are you any good?”

    “He better be for the time he’s shown up at,” Haldir told her waspishly.

    He left the office building, Bard hot on his heels and very determined not to be brushed aside this time.

    “I didn’t mean to look too eager,” he insisted.

    “It’s fine. I just need coffee first.”

    “Oh,” said Bard, coming to a halt.

    Haldir turned around in the street, walking backwards. “Come on!” he barked.

    Bard hurried after him again.

    “So how do you know Thranduil?” Haldir inquired, tying back his blonde hair as he walked.

    “I rented his flat.”

    “Did you really? That’s unfortunate.”

    “I’ve been hearing that a lot. I don’t know why.”

    Haldir raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you like him?”

    “Why shouldn’t I?”

    “Nobody who lives with him likes him.”

    “I think he’s fine. It’s sad that his wife died.”

    “You don’t know the half of it. He didn’t tell me you moved in.”

    “It was only last week.”

    “Alone?”

    “I have three kids.”

    Haldir laughed.

    “What?” said Bard, feeling peeved now.

    “Nothing. Here we are.”

    They entered a little café. Haldir ordered a very strong coffee, and Bard requested a flat white. He fished some change out of his pocket and gave it to the barista and then he and Haldir took seats by a window.

    “Let’s see what you’ve got,” said Haldir.

    Bard handed him the folder, head pounding with nerves. Haldir flicked it open and riffled through the contents, his eyes darting over articles and newspaper clippings. Bard had chosen not to include his fictional work, as it didn’t apply to this kind of job, and he hadn’t been brave enough to ask Thranduil if he had a printer.

    “Is this all of it?” Haldir asked after a long silence.

    Bard’s coffee was getting cold. He hadn't touched it.

    “I have some published works as well, but that’s my professional stuff,” he said, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

    “You should have put everything in. You’re good.”

    “Oh… thank you.”

    “You’re hired.”

    Haldir stood up abruptly, picking up his coffee cup and hitching the folder under his arm. With the tinkle of the shop bell, he strode back down the street. Bard hastened after him, feeling stunned. He wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t an awful prank. But Haldir didn’t show any signs of joking. His fine features were set and purposeful as they headed back to the office.

    “Now, we’re only a local paper, so don’t expect anything fancy here,” he said. “You’ll get a desk upstairs and I’ll organise a staff password as well. The workload will be quite heavy until we can find a couple more writers, but we can organise your schedule around your kids if you like. Is nine-to-two okay?”

    “Yeah,” said Bard breathlessly.

    “Most Friday’s are off for staff writers unless you’re behind on work, which you don’t want to be. Your reports and articles go through me unless stated otherwise. I’m the Editor-in-Chief, but sometimes you send stuff through Nim.”

    Upon re-entering the office, Haldir led Bard up a flight of stairs to the second floor, which was made up of spacious cubical desks and a clean, bright kitchenette. Haldir waved to a couple of people, and then showed Bard an empty desk in the far corner. He sat down and switched the computer on, twiddling his thumbs absently.

    A woman approached. She was smartly dressed, but wearing slippers instead of high-heels. She gave Bard a wary smile before turning to Haldir.

    “Haldir, do you know where I can get information on the missing person case? The police won’t give me anything,” she said.

    “Is this the one about the girl found in a river? Call Thranduil; he did the post-mortem so he’ll have something.”

    Bard felt his stomach flip.

    “I thought Thranduil was a pathologist,” he said, half to himself.

    Haldir chuckled. “Yeah, at the morgue. Pathologist is just a title. Okay, enter a password for yourself.”

    Bard did so, still feeling rather bewildered. The computer logged him in and Haldir took a moment to set up an e-mail and check that everything was in order.

    “I’ll put you on some easy articles for now – Mithrellas will be happy to see she has less work to do. They’re roughly five hundred words each.” Haldir stood, offering Bard the desk chair.

    “I – I wasn’t expecting to start straight away,” Bard said awkwardly.

    Haldir frowned to himself. “I would have you start next week if we weren’t so desperate for writers. But, call this an induction. If your articles are any good, you can have Monday off as well as Friday, and then I’ll introduce you to everyone and set you a consistent workload. Well, good luck.” Haldir waved and wandered off downstairs again.

    Bard turned to the computer, flexing his fingers uncertainly. He wanted to impress, but there was a rock in his stomach that was going to complicate his writing if it wouldn’t budge. If he was honest, he would much rather be at home writing his novel, not throwing together articles. But it couldn’t be helped. He needed a decent income and with writing being his only discernable talent (though this too was debatable), this was as good as it was going to get.

    Bard did eventually shift the rock. He spit out five hundred words on a piece about the new train station, and then four hundred concerning a plea for volunteers to help clean up the quarry (which was rather convincing, if he did say so himself), and six hundred and fifty on the library’s ‘top ten recommended reads for winter.’

    He e-mailed the articles through and then got to his feet gingerly. Everyone else was still at their desks, tapping madly at keyboards – except for the woman in slippers, who was watching a television show and sniffling quietly into a handkerchief. None of them looked up when Bard left. He pulled on his coat and, checking the time, decided to get some lunch on his way home.

    “Oh, Bard – it’s Bard, right?”

    The girl at the front desk was calling him. Bard backtracked from the door and sidled up to her.

    “Can you fill this out for me? I need your details to put into the system.”

    Nodding, Bard took a pen and wrote down his NIN, e-mail address and phone number, among many other official things. The girl watched him all the while, evidently fascinated by something Bard wasn’t aware of.

    He returned the pen and form.

    “I’m Nimrodel,” she said, extending a hand for Bard to take. “Everyone calls me Nim.”

    Bard shook Nim’s hand, and then went to the bakery a few shops away.

 

    Tilda, Bain and Sigrid were delighted by the news of Bard getting a job. The four of them went out for dinner that night to celebrate, perfectly happy to spend money on such frivolities now that the money would soon be seen in the bank again.

    When they returned to the house, Bard went to find Thranduil in order to thank him for Haldir’s phone number. While the children went up to the flat, Bard scouted the ground floor. The Dobermans sniffed at him when he entered the large, round sitting room. The brown one licked his hand, and he scratched her behind a pointed ear.

    Bard went to the second floor instead, figuring Thranduil would be in his study as he usually was, but nobody answered the door when Bard knocked, so he moved on.

    He hadn’t been in the library, having not dared tempt himself with the prospect of so many books, or else be disappointed by the potential lack of them. Bard knocked to give Thranduil warning if he was inside, and then entered.

    The library was a tower room, lit pleasantly in orange and yellow against the navy darkness plastered behind golden windows. Shelves upon shelves of books circled the timber-panelled walls, rising up and up with a gallery in the middle. There were comfortable sofas tucked into corners, and double doors at the far end closed off a balcony, next to which stood a very old, grand piano. Bard decided he was impressed; a feeling he had grown accustom to while living here.

    Thranduil was high above in the gallery, carrying a pile of books. He turned his head to peer down at Bard, who approached from underneath, the floorboards creaking.

    “Will you take these for me?”

    Thranduil leaned over the gallery railing and dropped the books one-by-one down to Bard, who caught them clumsily. Some made contact with the floor, but he quickly retrieved them as Thranduil climbed down the ladder.

    “Light reading?” Bard mused, examining the titles, which were all scientific-sounding and had to do with the human body.

    “They are for students,” said Thranduil, taking the books back.

    “Are you a teacher as well?” Bard said, raising an eyebrow.

    Thranduil shook his head. “I am giving a presentation to university students tomorrow. I was asked to provide reading material.”

    He carried the books to a table, stacking them neatly to one side and then sitting down. Bard went over, watching as Thranduil retrieved the topmost book, opened up to certain chapter and then set it aside. He moved onto the next book, then Bard spoke.

    “I wanted to thank you for giving me Haldir’s phone number. I got the job.”

    “I’m pleased,” said Thranduil, not looking up from a contents page.

    Bard cleared his throat awkwardly. “He had me start writing straight away.”

    Thranduil nodded, taking another book.

    “I asked after a job there some weeks ago, but was turned down at once,” Bard ploughed on, becoming irritated at Thranduil’s lack of interest. He just wanted to express his gratitude.

    “They were looking for people they could rely on to publish decent stories and articles. You were unknown and unconnected until you met me.”

    Bard assumed this was Thranduil’s way of saying ‘you’re welcome.’

    “Do you need some help?” he said, steering the conversation away from a dead-end.

    This made Thranduil look up. His fingers hovered at the pages of the third book, frozen. He studied Bard, practically x-raying him to search for an ulterior motive.

    “If you might photocopy the chapters I’ve opened… there’s a printer over there,” he finally said.

    Bard picked up one of the open books and went over to a large printer on an antique cabinet. He set the book inside it, asked how many copies were needed, and punched thirteen into the keypad. As the printer started to rumble and whirr, Bard removed his coat and gloves and set them on a nearby armchair.

    They worked in silence for a while, which was broken only by the noisy photocopies churning out of the machine. As Bard handed Thranduil a fresh stack, he indicated the piano, which had been catching his eye.

    “Do you play?”

    Thranduil briefed the instrument a glance, and then returned to the book he was browsing. “No,” he said.

    Bard imagined he needn’t ask why. He finished photocopying Thranduil’s books, and then went to leave the library, feeling perturbed and put-out by this unproductive talk.

    “Congratulations,” Thranduil blurted, causing Bard to turn around at the door. The other man looked quite embarrassed at his sudden outburst. “On – on getting the job. It is worthy of you.”

    Bard nodded his thanks and retreated upstairs, dwelling on this. The way Thranduil had said it intrigued him – that the job was worthy of Bard, not the other way around. Bard had never shown his writing to Thranduil, so what made him phrase it like that?

    Deciding to disregard it, Bard entered the flat and went to his desk to write to his friend, pleased to at last have good news.

 

* * *

 

 

_Subject: Do You Know Any Paranormal Investigators?_

_From: B. Bowman_

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

 

_Thorny,_

_Okay, so the subject line is a bit of a laugh, but this new place… it has to be haunted. Cheap and haunted like a horror movie set. I’m still waiting for disembodied hands to grab me from behind._

_I won’t admit it, because it means I owe Bain ten quid, but I’ve never been in a more eerie place. It’s a few centuries old, at least. I’m talking creaky floorboards, too many shadows, a wife that died falling from the balcony (which is uncomfortably close to the lounge suite)._

_I probably shouldn’t discuss that last one so flippantly. I feel sorry for the bloke who lives here, though people assure me time and again that he’s disagreeable and cold. I have not found that to be the case, but perhaps I relate to him enough to see past his indifference. You can’t lose someone and not let grief overcome you like that._

_And I owe him a lot. I feel thankful to know him. He’s given me a house to live in (I’ve added a picture. The kids and I have the top floor to ourselves) and he even secured me a job at an actual paying newspaper. I started today._

_Things are looking up, and I hope it stays that way, though it’s hard to be so far from home._

_You’ll have to come and visit after Christmas. I’ll show you around. You can meet my mysterious landlord and maybe any spirits I make friends with._

_Bard._


	3. Chapter 3

_Subject: Re: Do You Known Any Paranormal Investigators?_

_From: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_To: B. Bowman_

_Bard._

_Gilraen is passing along a message, and I quote, “You tell Bard to get out of that house! I can practically feel ghosts oozing out of its walls just through the picture!”_

_If I am to be subjected to one more whiff of incense, or meet another crackpot exorcist, I’m sending myself to boarding school with Aragorn._

_In answer to your question, yes I do know quite a few ‘paranormal investigators’ and, let me tell you, I have never met a more loony bunch of people. Why are their eyes so big? Why is their skin so pale? Conclusion; they are also ghosts, and I want nothing to do with them._

_Your landlord doesn’t sound very disagreeable to me. Hell, if a guy gave me a house and job, I’d kiss him full on the mouth. I’d suck his dick, I don’t care._

_Arathorn._

_P.S. My inbox at work is still bare of the collected works of B. Bowman. When am I going to see some new stuff?_

 

* * *

 

_Subject: Have You Change Therapists Again?_

_From: B. Bowman_

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

 

_Unfriend me._

* * *

 

_Subject: Stairs and Ravings._

_From: B. Bowman_

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_Thorny._

_Okay, don’t unfriend me. You’re my only correspondence and I have to say this to someone._

_I don’t know if it’s the trick of the light, or just my own wild imagination, but I swear I sometimes see a shadow lurking behind Thranduil – one that is not his own. A couple of times, it’s just been his Dobermans, but other times I’ve caught glimpses of a dark figure that seems to have latched itself to him._

_Maybe I’m deluding myself. We see what we want to believe, after all. But the idea is so exciting, even when you take into account how… empty Thranduil is. He seems utterly void. I think perhaps the house drains him, or the shadow weighs him down. After a while, you start to recognise your own grief in other people, and I see my own in Thranduil’s, though it festers differently._

_But again and again, I wonder if it is the house. When he’s outside, Thranduil is almost cheerful, though the mornings are now bringing frosts up here and there is no hope for any more flowers to grow (even I can admit that the gardens here are beautiful). What little time he does spend inside, it is in the library or his study, pouring over books like they might take him away from this place._

_He’s a pathologist, you know? But the creepy kind. Dead bodies and stuff._

_I feel the need to write about him. And I ought to, if I am to call myself any sort of writer. Everything about the man is crying to be written about; his hair, his voice, the steady way he walks and the intense way he stares at things. He’s quite a fascinating muse. I have begun looking forward to bumping into him on the stairs, though this happens less and less frequently nowadays. He keeps to himself, and my workload at the newspaper has tripled (not that I’m complaining)._

_I probably should just leave him alone, but I’ve been so long away from people I can actually relate to. I haven’t made any friends since I left town._

_Give Aragorn and Gilly my love. I hope she’s letting up her newest… interest._

_Bard._

_P.S. Stop badgering me._

* * *

_Subject: Re: Stairs and Ravings._

_To: B. Bowman_

_From: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_Bard._

_It sounds like you’re starting to fancy him._

_Arathorn._

_P.S. No. I’ll have to take you off my list if I don’t see something soon._

* * *

 

_Subject: Re: Re: Stairs and Ravings._

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_From: B. Bowman_

 

_Thorny._

_I send you an essay and that’s all I get._

_I haven’t even told you about his library._

_Bard._

_P.S. I’m still working on something, okay? I’ll send it through when the first chapters are ready._

 

* * *

 

    A loud _bang_ woke Bard in the middle of the night. Jerking upright, he strained his ears to listen for the source of the noise. It had been so loud it could have happened in his bedroom, but the closed windows and door suggested it had come from elsewhere.

    It wasn’t windy, but Bard settled on a door slamming shut somewhere in the house, having been echoed up to him by the old floorboards. He rolled over to go back to sleep, but he heard another bang, and then… piano keys being played.

    Crawling out of the warm bed, Bard pulled on a sweater and hurried to Tilda and Sigrid’s room. They were both asleep, and so was Bain in the bedroom across the hallway, none of them playing a piano or banging anything. Frowning, Bard started back to bed when he heard a distant voice, as though it was trailing up to him from the stairs.

    “Be careful with the piano; it’s an antique.”

    The voice was female; strict and thickly accented, as though she was from further north. But none of that really ought to be of any consequence, as there were no women in the house with thick Scottish accents. Intrigued and deeply puzzled, Bard wandered downstairs to see what could possibly be going on at two in the morning.

    The landing downstairs was brightly lit, though no lamps had been turned on. Sunshine was streaming mistily through the windows. Everything was cast in a half-shadow, as though the sunlight was trying to overpower the night time that was supposed to be there.

    Bard blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes in amazement at what he saw.

    There were strangers in the foyer, standing beside an old piano – the same piano Bard had seen in the library. A boy was being glared at by a tall, haughty woman who stood very straight, her hand on the piano lid, which was evidently what had made the noise that had woken Bard. They were semi-transparent, like ghosts, but not like ghosts, and Bard wondered if that’s exactly what they were.

    “You are not to touch it, do you understand?” The woman’s voice echoed around the room, ringing in Bard’s ears.

    The boy stamped his feet. “What’s the point of giving me lessons if I’m not allowed to play?”

    “I don’t appreciate your tone, young man. You have your own piano downstairs.”

    “I hate that piano.”

    “ _Thranduil._ ”

    Bard stared. Was he seeing a moment from Thranduil’s past? How could that be? Surely he was just having a peculiar dream?

    The young Thranduil cowered under the woman’s stern gaze, but did not break eye contact. He sniffed, and then said;

    “When will I be allowed in the parlour?”

    “When you’re old enough,” she said distractedly. She was peering down to the ground floor and ignoring Thranduil’s protestations.

    “But you said that last year!”

    “You’re still not old enough. Oh, the delivery men are back.” The woman’s voice became suddenly airy and gracious as two burly men in overalls came stomping up the stairs. “Hello, chaps. I know I’m an awful pain, but you can manage just one more floor, can’t you? We want in the parlour upstairs.”

    “Not a problem, ma’am. ‘scuse us, laddie.”

    Thranduil scowled at being addressed thus, but hurried out of the way of the delivery men as together they lifted the piano and started to haul it up to Bard’s flat. He too tried to move aside to let them pass, but they walked right through him, like he wasn’t even there.

    The woman - who Bard assumed was Thranduil’s mother - accompanied them, watching anxiously for any sign that the piano might get damaged on its journey. The young Thranduil stood at the foot of the stairs, his expression livid at being slighted.

    “Oh, do watch the balustrade, boys; I’ve just had it polished.”

    Bard was about to look back to see what was happening when he noticed Thranduil’s face had started to swim oddly. The boy became vapour, and then nothing at all, and Bard was standing on the stairs all alone, staring into the darkness.

 

    The morning frosts finally brought snow as December crept on, slowly and drearily. Bard hated winter; he hated cold evenings and rain in his shoes and icy roads that were dangerous to drive on. When the snow finally arrived, he made a mess of his bedroom looking for his warmest coat, which he hadn’t been able to find for weeks. Grumbling and cursing because he would be late for work (again), he went downstairs to see if Thranduil was about and if he had perhaps seen it.

    Bard had decided not to tell Thranduil about what he had witnessed that night on the stairs. He wasn’t entirely convinced it hadn’t been just a dream (though waking up with his sweater on all but confirmed that it had been real), but he didn’t think Thranduil needed further evidence that his house was… well… Bard didn’t want to say haunted, but...

    As he headed down the stairs, Bard felt an indent on the balustrade beneath his fingers. Squinting at it, he saw a deep scratch in the wood, and imagined a piano being jostled a bit too much to the right on its way up to the third floor.

    Shivering slightly, he walked very quickly across the landing and down the next flight of stairs.

    Thranduil was in the wide, brightly-lit kitchen, in the process of leaving for his own job. He had a lab coat on under his black one and was downing the last dregs of coffee.

    “Have you seen my coat?” Bard asked.

    “I think it’s in the library,” Thranduil answered before whisking down the hall without saying goodbye.

    Sighing, Bard went back to the second floor. How typical of Thranduil to not say anything unless Bard asked for it. For weeks he had been layering on his sweaters in an effort to stay warm when his coat had been in the library all this time.

    Throwing open the door, Bard found it with his gloves on the armchair, unmoved and untouched. He shook them of dust and was about to leave, but stopped, glancing back at the piano by the balcony. It was definitely the same one he had seen in the ‘dream.’ How had it been returned to the second floor? Why did Thranduil move it down?

    It was made of a deep, dark wood and had gold lettering on the front. Bard hadn’t had the luxury of being near such an instrument for a very long time. It tempted him, as all beautiful things did. He went over and sat before it. His hand brushed the lid where Thranduil’s mother had shut it. Another shiver tickled his spine.

    The keys were polished and clean, but stiff from lack of use. Despite this, Bard was surprised to hear it was tuned when he pressed one down. What was the point, he wondered, if no one played it?

    Feeling like he was doing something very illegal, Bard set his feet on the pedals and hit the keys at random to alleviate their stiffness. It didn’t help, but made them feel better all the same. Perhaps it was just a mental thing. He started to play.

    He was definitely rusty. His meticulous practice throughout childhood and adolescence had not quite carried over to his adult life. It was a shocking performance, so Bard stopped, readjusted his footing, and then started again, wishing he had some sheet music to help him. But there was no sheet music, and no acoustics; there was nothing to suggest the piano ought to be in the library, yet it was.

    Bard didn’t play for long. He was halfway through a simple piece by Chopin when he noticed someone standing at the library door and he ceased playing at once. He thought at first that it was another ghost, but it was Thranduil, fully grown this time, and furious. His expression was set, his knuckles were white on the door handle and his eyes somehow a brighter shade of blue. A muscle in his jaw twitched as Bard got to his feet, looking apologetic.

    Thranduil seemed to want to say something, but he didn’t. Bard refused to look him in the eye as he grabbed his coat and gloves and excused himself. Their hands brushed in the doorway. Bard made for the stairs, but he heard Thranduil’s sharp intake of breath and turned around. The man was glaring at him, his mouth half-open. When he still did not speak, Bard broke the tension.

    “I know that was wrong of me. I’m sorry,” he said, and he went up to the flat, blood pounding in his ears.

 

    The Christmas holidays were fast approaching and Bard requested time off from work so that he could be with his children. Haldir had been reluctant, but understanding, and arranged for Bard to work from home on small articles, so as to unburden the other workers a little bit. They had hired two more writers, which was making everything much easier on everyone.

    Bard had attempted to ease the tension that had now brimmed between him and Thranduil, but with little success. When they at last bumped into each on the stairs again, he coerced Thranduil into a conversation.

    “Will you have any family over for Christmas?” he inquired.

    Thranduil’s grip on the bannister tightened slightly. “My children are coming home,” he said.

    Bard started. “You – you have kids?”

    Thranduil nodded, and then continued downstairs again, pulling on his gloves.

    This new element to Thranduil swept a fresh surge of interest and empathy over Bard. It was one thing to share past experiences, but quite another to share the same burden of raising children alone.

 

_Subject: Seasons Shriekings._

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_From: B. Bowman_

_Thorny,_

_Things are tense. I had a weird... dream. I'm starting to think this place really is haunted. And I played his piano. Period drama, or plain stupidity? The latter, I think._

_He has kids, too, apparently, and they’re coming home for Christmas. I wonder if they’ll get along with Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. I can’t help but hope so._

_Stay warm, and have a Merry Christmas. I sent a card, and I expect it on your mantel until January._

_Bard._

 

* * *

 

 

    Bard took his time off work with much relief, especially since he wasn’t having any more strange accounts of the house’s history. He spent entire days holed up inside by the fire, away from the snow and the bitter cold. It cost a great deal of money to keep the house warm, so the central heating was never on – if it even existed – and Bard had taken to lighting the fire as soon as he woke up, keeping a stack of firewood in the house at all times. The unbearable chill made it very hard to get up in the morning, but Bard reasoned that it was a whole lot better than paying an extra hundred or more pounds for gas.

    When the last day of school finally arrived, he and his children set up a Christmas tree to celebrate – their first proper one in two years. It had been quite an effort to get it up two flights of stairs, and Bard was rather sympathetic to the delivery men who had heaved the piano up them some 20 years ago.

    The day after that, Thranduil left very early in the morning and returned just before midday with two others; a boy – stiff-backed and the spitting image of Thranduil – and a girl, who was younger and looked nothing like either of them.

    Bard didn’t feel it was his place to go down and introduce himself. There was no need to get to know Thranduil’s children, or anything about his life and family. Bard had to remind himself constantly that, just because they lived in the same house, didn’t mean they were to invest in one another’s lives. In fact, Thranduil never asked after Bard’s children or anything about Bard beyond what he did for a living. Thranduil upheld an unwritten rule of not being friends with your tenant, and it was about time Bard respected that.

    However, he was introduced to the children that very same day, but not by Thranduil. It was the boy who approached the flat, knocking timidly on the balustrade, as there was no door. Bard and his children all looked up from what they were doing, scrutinizing him. He was about Bain’s age, with white-blonde hair curled about his ears – grown long due to not having a parental figure around to tell him to cut it. At first glance, he was indeed very similar to Thranduil, but as he came closer, Bard saw that his face was softer and rounder and his eyes were brown, not blue. He smiled graciously.

    “I’m Legolas,” he said. “You must be our new housemates.”

    Bard smiled, standing up and shaking the boy’s hand. Then, he caught a glimpse of red at the staircase. The girl was there as well, peering through the bannister with abnormally wide eyes, obviously a little shy. When she realised she had been spotted, she gave a little start, and then emerged fully, shuffling up beside Legolas.

    “This is Tauriel,” he said.

    “I’m Bard,” said Bard. “And this is Bain, Tilda, and Sigrid.”

    Sigrid and Tilda waved, and Bain gave a curt nod, which was customary for boys his age.

    “Father tells me you’re a writer,” Legolas said.

    _Well at least his son knows how to hold a conversation,_ Bard thought bitterly.

    “Of sorts.”

    “He says you’re very good.”

    Bard’s heart skipped a beat. How could Thranduil possibly have an opinion on his writing? Unless… he hadn’t gone and bought Bard’s books?! No, Bard wouldn’t stand for that. It was too humiliating.

    He changed the subject quickly. “Have you two been at boarding school?”

    Legolas nodded, but he did not offer any remark on his education. Bard supposed he didn’t like it very much, and couldn’t understand how Thranduil was able to send his children so far away for such long periods of time. Bard would never have considered the idea, even with enough money at his disposal. He would miss his children too much.

    “Have you been here long?” Legolas said, diffusing the building silence.

    “Just over a month. It’s very nice.”

    “You are much better than our old tenants. They quarrelled all the time and left cigarette butts everywhere.”

    “I try my best to be amiable.”

    “We were just about to go for a walk. Would you like to come?” Legolas said, glancing at Bard’s children.

    “It snowed last night,” Tilda said, making it evident that she thought walking in the snow was only something silly boys did, and that Legolas must be the silliest boy of them all.

    Legolas chuckled, but Tauriel frowned, speaking for the first time. “That’s half the fun!”

    “Snow isn’t fun, half or full!”

    “I can prove you wrong!”

    “Well, I’m game,” said Bain, interrupting them not a moment too soon. “Beats sitting up here all day.”

    And as though he spoke for all his siblings, the three of them went to get their coats and shoes. Bard and Legolas exchanged amused looks.

    “Will you join us?” Legolas asked. He was very odd for a teenager. Far too polite and mature, but not in the good-natured way some teenagers could be. In a hard, uncharacteristic way that suggested he was not naturally like this.

    Bard grimaced. “I don’t think so. I’m much less inclined to snow than they are. And I’m supposed to be working.”

    “What are you working on?”

    “Nothing exciting.”

    “Your own work?”

    “No, but maybe later.”

    “Alright. We’ll be downstairs.”

    A few minutes later, Bain, Sigrid and Tilda came bustling out of their bedrooms in (new) winter coats and shoes, calling out goodbyes to Bard as they launched themselves excitedly down the stairs. Bard went to one of the front-facing windows in the sitting room and looked down to see the five of them running outside, already talking and bickering. He hoped they would get along better than he and Thranduil did.

    Work eluded Bard. He lay back on the sofa with his laptop on his chest, tapping words mindlessly into the keyboard and trying to make sense of them. After several more minutes, however, he gave up the article on the school’s Christmas play as bad job, wishing he had gone out with the children after all. He hadn’t left the house properly for a few days now and he was beginning to feel a bit feverish. The ghosts he had seen on the lower floor nagged him still and staying in the house almost seemed to make their presence more noticeable. Bard had more than once seen the paintings downstairs being straightened and dusted of their own accord.

    Getting up and stretching rather painfully, Bard went to get his coat.

    On the ground floor landing, he bumped into Thranduil exiting the kitchen. He was holding a newspaper in his hand and dog coats under his arm. Bard saw that the newspaper was the one he worked for and was rather amused to see Thranduil put it out of sight on a nearby table, acting as if he had never had it.

    “Are you walking?”

    Thranduil nodded, going into the sitting room where his dogs scrambled to their feet from their beds, barking delightedly at the sight of their coats. Thranduil put them on and the Dobermans led the way to the front door, nearly barrelling Bard over.

    He didn’t think he would be permitted to walk with Thranduil. They had barely spoken since the incident with the piano, but there wasn’t really a choice to be had in the matter. There was only one path, after all, and Bard wasn’t going to get himself lost in the snow and trees trying to navigate a different one.

    So, they walked together. The forest was more comfortable than the house. It was like breathing cleaner air; one free of spirits and ghosts and the dust of hundreds of years of sorrow.

    Emma and Eileen launched themselves towards the forest path, snuffling through snow and barking at stray birds. Bard watched them for a while, not keen to break the silence between him and Thranduil should it be undesired or prelude to even more discomfort.

    But, to Bard’s immense surprise, it was Thranduil who spoke as they entered the forest.

    “I added your books to my library.”

    Bard’s heart skittered and for a moment he did not dare speak, in case he said something stupid. He was very aware of Thranduil looking at him. Their slow footsteps were in sync, leaving deep prints in the snow.

    “Did you read them?”

    “I liked the story about the princess,” said Thranduil.

    Bard flushed. “That is the most childish of my short stories.”

    “I disagree. It was true, wasn’t it? It sounded like a true story.”

    Bard didn’t reply. Yes, it many ways it had been a true story, but no one was supposed to know that. Evidently Thranduil was not fooled by facades.

    “Who was the princess? Someone you know?”

    “My wife,” said Bard.

    “I didn’t know you are married.”

    Bard glanced down at his left hand; there was a white mark on the fourth finger where a ring had once been.

    “Is she abroad?”

    “She’s dead,” said Bard quickly.

    “I’m sorry,” said Thranduil at once. He sounded sincere, and Bard finally looked up at him and saw the concerned expression on his face.

    “Don’t worry about it. It was years ago.”

    He had a bad habit of isolating himself from other people who had experienced similar losses. Bard thought of the tragic grief Thranduil must have suffered at such a young age, and yet he, Bard, had been partial to it as well. The only difference was that he didn’t seem to think it mattered as much. His own sorrows were not to be subjected to, even by himself. The grief of others was far worse.

    They walked on for a few more minutes without speaking, the dogs bounding ahead. Bard didn’t really feel like walking anymore, but he knew it would be rude to turn around and head back. And, just as they turned a bend in the path, he spotted figures up ahead.

    “We have caught them up,” said Thranduil.

    “I didn’t know you had children,” said Bard, trying his best not to sound accusatory.

    Thranduil smiled lightly. “It is a rather unfortunate title for them, since they are in my care.”

    “What do you mean?”

    Thranduil shook his head, looking down at his feet.

    “How old are they?”

    “Legolas is fourteen, and Tauriel is twelve.”

    “Is Tauriel adopted?”

    “She is my ward. Her parents died when she was young, so my wife took her in, being her only living relative. When she too died, I was left as Tauriel’s guardian, though I live poorly to the expectation.”

    “Why do you say that? You don’t treat them badly,” protested Bard.

    “Perhaps not, but sending them away to school every year increases the distance between us.” Thranduil paused, as though debating whether or not he wanted to continue. Then, with another small shake of his head, he fell quiet.

    They were greeted with waves and shouts as they neared the huddle of kids, who were building a snowman on the side of the path by a tree. The Dobermans sprinted over to them, leaping into Legolas and Tauriel’s arms, licking their faces and kicking up snow in their excitement. Bard caught Thranduil smiling, but turned his head away out of respect. Thranduil’s smile seemed rare and forbidden to look upon, though it was something beautiful to see.

    “Da, did you bring a carrot?” Tilda called as they came closer.

    “I don’t make a habit of carrying them with me,” said Bard.

    “You wound me, da.”

    “I know,” he said, and knelt down beside the snowman. “But we can find something else for his nose, I think?”

    “Like what?”

    He patted down his coat, searching unsuccessfully for something that might pass for a nose. He had his phone, keys, various sweets and gum-wrappers, a pen, and some tissues. He sighed.

    “I’m sure we can find a good rock,” he suggested.

    The Dobermans were now sniffing the snowman warily. The black one whined and snapped at one of the twig arms. Legolas moaned.

    “Eileen!” he scolded, and the dog backed off, distracted now by snowflakes that were falling from a tree above her.

    “Here, will this do?”

    Thranduil spoke. He held a rock forward and Tilda gasped excitedly. Tauriel, who was on her hands and knees searching through the snow, reached up and took the rock, offering it to Tilda who placed it carefully in the snowman’s face.

    “He’s beautiful,” she said fondly, and Tauriel nodded emphatically.

    A few photos were taken, and then the company continued along the path. The children talked amongst themselves. Tauriel and Sigrid, who were the same age, were getting along very well, and Tilda had evidently taken a liking to Legolas, who was showing her signs of hibernating animals in the snow. Bain trailed awkwardly between them, attempting to find where he fit.

    The girls soon joined forces and ran ahead and Bain and Legolas walked in a respectful silence, much like Thranduil and Bard. The latter wondered if it would be worth it to try and strike up another conversation, but he found he had nothing to say to Thranduil. What could he say? They didn’t even know each other. And Thranduil was… odd. Bard couldn’t put it any other way. Enamoured by him though he might be, Bard couldn’t quite come to terms with Thranduil. For all their shared experiences, they were too different, and this made it difficult to find common ground.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's a secret santa without christmas?

 Despite their differences, Bard was still finding himself inexplicably drawn to Thranduil. As Christmas finally arrived, he felt lonelier and lonelier, and had taken to lounging about the library in the hope that Thranduil might happen up him, or vice versa. Bard didn’t have any friends aside from Arathorn – he had his constant moving around to thank for that – and neither, it seemed, did Thranduil. So where was the harm, Bard thought, in rectifying this? It wasn’t as if Thranduil objected. Bard’s presence in the library was not hindering the time he spent there. In fact, Thranduil wandered among the books more often now that Bard was there for company, even if it was just the tapping of his keyboard. They had this silent way of understanding one another; rarely saying anything, but still exchanging thoughts somehow.

    “What are you writing?”

    It was Christmas Eve morning. The usually dark library was bathed in the light of the fresh snow outside. Bard sat in front of his laptop, adorned in a great many sweaters as there was no fireplace in the room. Thranduil was wrapping presents, also wearing some four or five sweaters.

    “I’m attempting to write a novel,” Bard said absently, trying to make sense of a very stubborn paragraph.

    “What is it about?”

    Bard glanced up at this and his eyes met Thranduil’s. He seemed genuinely interested, but Bard wasn’t in the habit of talking about his work. He couldn’t bring himself to be proud of it. He liked what he wrote, to be sure, but he had his doubts all the same.

    “Well, it’s a crime novel, but I’ve never written anything like it before. I can’t quite fine-tune the details.”

    Thranduil hesitated before replying. “If you need any help, I might be able to assist you.”

    Bard furrowed his eyebrows. “How?”

    “I’ve seen my fair share of crime scenes and dead bodies, if that relates to your work at all.”

    “You say it so casually.”

    “I can’t help it; comes with the job description.”

    “That would be rather helpful, actually.”

    “I am at your disposal, then.” Thranduil peeled off a piece of tape from his hand and stuck it to the last gift.

    “Might I see some bodies?” Bard inquired carefully.

    “After Christmas, if you have the stomach for it.”

    “I’m sure they’re not that bad.”

    Thranduil smirked. “Have you ever seen a dead body before?”

    “No…” Bard admitted.

    “Not even your wife’s?”

    Bard swallowed thickly. He couldn’t reply, so simply nodded.

    “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” said Thranduil kindly, evidently realising he had misspoken. He scooped the presents into his arms and left Bard to his musings about cadavers.

 

    Christmas was setting up to be a quiet affair. Bard had dinner on Christmas Eve with his children upstairs, and Thranduil with his downstairs.

    Bard fretted for days whether or not he ought to get Thranduil a gift. He eventually decided that, yes, he should, and that a ludicrously expensive scarf would have to suffice as a mediator for their… unconventional understanding (‘friendship’ was hardly the right word for it). Bard wrapped it with great care and gave it to Legolas to put under their tree, trusting him not to say a word to his father.

    Tilda had not yet grown out of her belief in Santa Claus, so it was up to Bard to sneak out of his bedroom in the dead of night and laden the tree with the rest of the gifts. The pile was a little sad-looking, but considering there was only four of them and funds were still low, it was better than the previous year’s.

    Shivering in the cold flat, Bard gave the tree the rest of its presents, and then looked out the window. It was beginning to snow again. Strips of white danced in the moonlight and there, down below, a figure was walking through the grounds. Bard wondered if he was seeing another ghost and was going to very pointedly ignore it, but it was Thranduil.

    Bard considered his position for a moment. Then, deciding to indulge his curiosity, he hurried back to his room to put on boots and a coat over his pyjamas. He snatched his scarf from the balustrade and hastened down the stairs to the ground floor, tying back his unkempt hair as his did so.

    Thranduil was in the gardens by the time Bard reached the landing. He took the hallway to the kitchen, opening the back door and stepping out into the snow. His boots sank into the fresh powder and he was forced to stomp unceremoniously over to Thranduil, who had stopped to watch Bard with a bemused expression. He looked other-worldly, his pale hair and profile contrasting the dark sky in the moonlight. Bard couldn’t stop his heart leaping to his throat.

    “Merry Christmas,” Thranduil said as Bard reached him.

    “What? Oh, yeah. Merry Christmas,” Bard returned, realising it was one o’clock in the morning.

    “You’re not sleeping?”

    “I had to put presents under the tree.”

    “Oh, yes. I am relieved of that duty at last.”

    “Did Tauriel finally realise Santa isn’t real?”

    “She has known for a few years – she is not so easily fooled – but I kept up the habit anyway. And it seems my body refuses to deny the tradition, and I woke up.”

    “Why did you keep doing it?”

    As they walked, Thranduil considered his answer. “I thought it might make Christmas feel… more like Christmas.”

    He sighed, and his breath came out in a fog barely visible in the dim. Bard tried to look sympathetic. He knew how it felt to struggle through Christmas, not because of money, but because of the empty chair at the dinner table that refused to be filled, whether by other guests or more presents or fierce tradition. Nothing could replace the gnawing absence of a mother and a wife, especially at this time of the year.

    “Will you join us for dinner tomorrow?” Thranduil asked abruptly, pausing to turn back to the house.

    Bard raised an eyebrow, his stomach lurching. “I wouldn’t want to impose…”

    “I insist. It would be much happier with your company.”

    Feeling his ears grow hot at these words, Bard nodded, and Thranduil offered him one of his rare smiles as they started down the path through the snow-capped hedges.

    “May I ask you a question?”

    Thranduil inclined his head.

    “When Elrond suggested your house to me, he said you were – er – disagreeable.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but Bard was hoping it would get him an answer anyway.

    Thranduil almost smiled. Almost. “I suppose I’m not exactly a ‘people person’.”

    “But you’re perfectly pleasant to me,” Bard interjected.

    This did not encourage a response from Thranduil. He fell completely short, his brows knitted together. They walked the rest of the way to the house in silence, Bard’s mind buzzing with wonder.

    “Why did you rent this place out, anyway?” he said as they entered the kitchen, stamping their feet on the mat outside. “It’s not like you need the money.”

    Bard didn’t mean for it to sound quite so rude, but Thranduil didn’t seem to mind. He hummed thoughtfully before answering.

    “Money was never a factor when I put out the lease. I just… I wanted company.”

    “Oh.”

    “I am glad you found your way here. I enjoy your company very much.”

    And as if this was a perfectly normal way to end a conversation, Thranduil strode out of the kitchen and down the hall, leaving Bard’s heart stilled in the wake of his boots.

    Feeling slightly dazed, Bard dragged his sodden feet upstairs, dwelling on the conversation. Had he happened upon Thranduil in a moment of weakness? Or had he been waiting to say these things? Whatever the case, Bard felt suddenly in over his head. What was Thranduil playing at, being so friendly now? Was it the Christmas spirit getting to him? Yes, it must be.

 

    Bard awoke to stampeding footsteps the next morning. Positively quaking with cold, he pulled on a thick robe and shuffled outside to where his children sat huddled around the Christmas tree in their pyjamas.

    Lighting a fire and depositing himself on the floor beside them, Bard allowed his children to laden him with gifts, though he was still too sleepy to open them. Last night felt like a dream - a proper, non-ghost-related dream - but his muddy boots by the staircase and his hair tied back in a knot testified against this. And Bard didn’t believe he could have dreamt Thranduil saying those things.

    The ceremonial opening of presents left Bain, Tilda and Sigrid all very satisfied, much to Bard’s relief. Bain was over-the-moon with his new laptop (so that he could finally, _finally_ stop asking to use Bard’s), and Sigrid was extremely enthusiastic about the books Bard had chosen for her, and Tilda was trying to decide if she liked the ice skates or the Lego set better.

    “Do you think there’s a lake nearby?” she asked eagerly.

    “Maybe Thranduil will know. Hopefully lakes will be frozen enough to skate on.”

    “At the rate the snow has fallen this year, I’m sure they are,” said Sigrid.

    “Shall we get dressed and find out?”

    They did, but not after a generous breakfast and cartoons. Then Bard went downstairs to see if Thranduil was awake. He was. In the parlour he sat with Tauriel and Legolas, looking very tired, as though he might not have slept after his walk with Bard.

    Bard exchanged Christmas greetings with Tauriel and Legolas, and then asked Thranduil about any nearby lakes.

    “There’s one on the outskirts of the main town,” Thranduil replied. He pulled out his mobile phone to show Bard a map. “Are you going?”

    “Would you like to join us?”

    “Can we, uncle?” Tauriel piped up from the floor. “It’s been so long since we went ice-skating!”

    “Alright,” Thranduil agreed, getting to his feet.

    They took separate cars. Bard followed Thranduil’s Maserati down the snow-ridden roads. It was a nice day, despite the cold. The sun was out and people could be seen walking down the streets, some children throwing snowballs at each other and making snowmen.

    Thranduil did not skate. He brushed down the snow from a nearby bench on the lake’s edge and watched while the others slid around on the ice. He did not look put-out, but neither did he seem enthusiastic. He looked on with a distant expression, as though lost in memory.

    Once Tilda was feeling confident enough on her own, Bard trumped over to the bench and sat down next to Thranduil.

    “I didn’t get you anything,” Thranduil said, fingering the scarf around his neck, which was Bard’s gift.

    “You didn’t have to,” said Bard, blushing when he saw it.

    “You have little, yet you are very generous.”

    “I see no benefit in being selfish with my money.”

    Thranduil said nothing, and Bard glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He looked troubled.

    “You dislike Christmas.”

    “I don’t,” Thranduil said. “I just miss how it used to be.”

    Bard nodded. “As do I. But it seems a waste to despair over what once was. You must make the best out of what you have now.”

    Thranduil again did not say anything. Bard didn’t blame him. He knew the feeling, as he often did when it came to Thranduil. But Bard couldn’t understand how easily the man shut himself away from his family and his life. It was like talking to a ghost that refused to move on.

    They went home once toes started to freeze. The sun had disappeared behind dark clouds that were rolling in overhead; more snow was on its way.

    It started to fall almost as soon as they entered the house, stamping their muddy boots on the welcome mat. The dogs barked excitedly at their return, jumping up in futile attempts to lick Thranduil’s face. He told them to heel, and then they settled for sniffing at Bard, who still hadn’t really met them properly. He let them smell his hands and was quite thankful they did not object to his presence.

    Insofar, that Christmas wasn’t turning out too badly, if Bard had any other Christmas’ to go on. He spent the rest of morning upstairs watching the Christmas-special films while his children crooned over their presents.

    He was nervous about dinner. It had been a great many years since he and his children had eaten Christmas dinner with anyone other than themselves. Tilda seemed to be looking forward to it. She had concluded the other day that she did indeed like Thranduil very much, after he had helped with the snowman during their walk. And Sigrid got along very well with Tauriel and Legolas, so she had no misgivings either. Bain, however, was as sceptical as Bard. He and Legolas were still rather indifferent to one another. Bard wondered if it was just a teenager thing; they weren’t very alike, and he knew how poor the outcome of that could be among boys.

    Still, he was optimistic. And judging by the smell that was wafting up from the ground floor, the food would serve as an adequate distraction from any awkward silences.

    It wasn’t a conventional Christmas. Bard and his kids piled themselves with dishes of their own food and made a slow journey to the ground floor, where the sound of cutlery being set out could be heard. Thranduil had an entire dining hall at his disposal, but they laid the food on the table in the kitchen, which was smaller and decidedly friendlier, and held a view of the Christmas tree in the parlour. It was easily one of the most pleasant rooms to be in. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen had been renovated. The wallpaper was new and unpeeling, and the appliances shone with a modern, expensive quality, and the marble-top counters were cool to look at. It didn’t feel haunted at all, which made a nice change.

    Though it stormed and grumbled outside, it was calm and friendly inside. Bard wasn’t entirely confident with his own presence, but did his best to feel at home. This was, after all, the place for it.

    The children dominated the talk, and Bard and Thranduil obliged happily by joining in. They had little to say to one another, but plenty to say to their families.

    After dinner, they moved to the parlour to watch a film. It was pleasant, but every bit as awkward as Bard had expected. He simply couldn’t fathom Thranduil; he was so reserved and quiet, yet  intimidating and severe. Bard couldn’t figure out his angle. What had he meant last night when he said he liked Bard’s company? It surely didn’t show in the way he was sitting. Bard wished he could relax as well. He was afraid to make a wrong move around Thranduil, especially now they were actually becoming more acquainted with one another. Bard didn’t care what other people thought about Thranduil; he liked his company too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add a trigger warning against this chapter for hospital, death, murder, gore (? not really)... and yeah fun stuff that is pretty unnecessary to this fic, but will be needed later if I ever choose to continue it. this chapter is just a huge squabble of emotions and it's randomly the longest one because i had to fit in so much.

The holidays disappeared into more snow. Legolas and Tauriel returned to boarding school, and Bain, Tilda and Sigrid to their schools in town. January was promising to be even chillier than December and twice Bard and Thranduil were snowed in from their jobs. The first time had been frustrating, but the second time was just tiresome.

    “Maybe I will stay home today,” said Bard, staring dully at the front door. It was slightly ajar, but stuck with the snow barricading it outside.

    “I have crime scene to get to,” said Thranduil.

    “Crime scene?”

    He shrugged one shoulder. “I received a call from a friend; apparently it will interest me.”

    “I wish I could see it.”

    “If we find a way out, you’re welcome to come with me.”

    Bard considered this for a moment. He didn’t have any work to do at the office just yet… Surely they would manage without him for a day.

    “Alright,” he said.

    While Bard called the office to say he was ‘sick’ _and_ snowed in, Thranduil climbed through a window to get rid of the snow. Then, it was matter of driving the car out, which was an infuriating quarter of an hour revving through the fresh powder.

    “I hate it here,” Thranduil said savagely when they finally made it to the iron gates.

    “Is it nice in summer, at least?” Bard asked.

    “Not really. It rains a lot.”

    “Oh.”

    The crime scene was on the outskirts of town, at the lake where they had gone skating during Christmas. It was taped off and two police cars and an ambulance were wedged in the snow surrounding the frozen water. Thranduil joined them, sliding in and getting out of the car.

    “Finally.” One of the police officers greeted them. Bard couldn’t really make him out properly; most of his face was concealed by a thick black scarf and a mass of curly blonde hair. “What took so long? I was about to start without you.”

    “You wouldn’t dare,” said Thranduil with a careful smile.

    “Who’s your friend?”

    “Bard. Bard, this is Detective-Inspector Glorfindel.”

    Bard and Glorfindel nodded to each other.

    “So where’s the body?”

    Glorfindel pointed to the lake.

    “Ah,” said Thranduil, evidently understanding something. 

    “We’re not sure how to get her out.”

    “Have you tried a fishing rod?”

    “Funny. But look; there’s no hole in the ice. How did she even get under?”

    “She… she must have been there for a while.” Thranduil exchanged an uneasy look with Bard, who felt his stomach heave unpleasantly.

    “But how come she only floated to the top now? The man who found her said he saw her rising from the bottom.”

    Thranduil sighed. “Let’s work on getting her out first.”

    It was very dangerous business. The police were afraid to slip on the ice, or crack the entire thing and fall in. They eventually called in a local carpenter, who sawed a neat hole in the ice right above where the body was floating. The body – a girl, in her early twenties – was hauled out with ropes and slid across the ice. She was dripping wet and slightly blue from the intense cold of the water. Feeling nauseous, Bard looked away as she was put on a stretcher.

    In order to distract himself from the fact that there was an actual dead body barely feet away from him, he crept across the ice and peered into the hole the carpenter had made.

    “Bard, please be careful,” Thranduil called from the ambulance.

    “There’s something down here,” said Bard, squinting into the murky water.

    He heard the crunch of snow as footsteps approached. Glorfindel and Thranduil joined Bard at the water, looking down. It wasn’t deep, but it was dark and difficult to tell if Bard was seeing a rock, or something incriminating.

    Glorfindel clicked a flashlight on and shone it through the water. There, in its beam, was what looked like a sack tied to several bricks.

    “You might need a fishing rod after all,” Thranduil said.

    Glorfindel rolled his eyes, and then waved his fellow officers over.

    “She must have come loose from the sack. Do you want to see anything else we find?”

    “If you think it’s worth seeing. I’ll be at the hospital,” said Thranduil.

    He nodded to Bard and they went back to the car together. Bard realised he was trembling and tried to steady his hands in his lap. He was stunned by Thranduil’s indifference to the crime scene and the dead girl. But, like he had said, it came with job description.

    "I hate examining bodies that have been in the water," Thranduil grumbled, overtaking a minivan. 

    "Why?"

    "They smell something awful. It can take days to get it out of your skin and hair. I've had to throw out perfectly good clothes because I couldn't get the smell out of them."

    Bard made a face. "What does it smell like?"

    "Death, but it's so much worse because, since the body is breaking down, its proteins attach itself to other proteins, which is us, so you take it home with you. Looks like I'll have to pick up some lemons on the way back."

    "Lemons?"

    "Lemon juice helps get rid of the smell in your skin. And I'll try to find some scrubs for us to wear, because I like that jumper you're wearing and it would be a shame to throw it out."

    Bard laughed.

    They followed the ambulance to the hospital, which was back in town. It was an old, brick building capped with snow, sitting alongside a several shops and offices. Inside, it was modern and clean and smelled strongly of anaesthetic. Thranduil strode through the corridors purposefully, bypassing security and ‘staff only’ doors. Some people waved to him, casting curious glances at Bard, but he didn’t stop to chat. They went up a flight of stairs and through more doors, eventually ending up in a locker room where Thranduil dug around in a laundry basket for sets of scrubs.

    "But these are dirty," Bard complained, taking the pair that Thranduil handed him.

    "They're the cleanest ones I can find. Trust me, you'll be thankful to keep your other clothes clean."

    They changed quickly and hurried to Thranduil's office on the other side of the hospital. They dumped their other clothes on the desk before going down another flight of stone steps. Ahead of them, the body was being delivered on a gurney by a bespectacled man in a lab coat. Bard could smell the body from down the hall and clapped a hand to his nose. Thranduil nodded sympathetically, wrinkling his own.

    They caught up the doctor. He looked tired and hunched over and he greeted Thranduil with a grunt.

    “I hope you’re taking this one,” he said nasally. It sounded like he was holding his breath against the stench.

    “What do you think I’m doing here?”

    “Who’s this?”

    “Bard.”

    “Hi,” said Bard.

    “Celeborn,” said the doctor.

    “Do you work in the morgue as well?”

    “In a manner of speaking,” said Thranduil a little coldly.

    “I pull my weight,” said Celeborn with a scowl.

    “You _catalogue_ the bodies.”

    “Someone has to. I don’t see you bothering to do it.”

    Thranduil waved a hand impatiently, and the three of them went with the body (which was mercifully covered with a sheet, though it didn't mask the smell) through a set of double doors that bore the word ‘morgue’ above them.

    It was freezing in the morgue, which Bard had expected. Celeborn wheeled the gurney over to a table where dozens of very unwholesome-looking surgical instruments lay. Thranduil shrugged on a lab coat that was hanging on a peg and handed one to Bard as well. Celeborn briefed a look at the body, and then left, limping slightly now he didn’t have the gurney for support.

    Bard felt more nauseous than ever. He stared at the silhouette of the girl beneath the sheet. It was damp and sticking to her horribly, shaping her curves and profile. Bard flinched when Thranduil peeled it off.

    She was pretty, with dark brown hair and long eyelashes. But it was hard to imagine her as anything but dead when her skin was bone-white and swollen grossly from water absorption. She was leaking, too. Water oozed from her body onto the gurney.

    “This is the third body like this I’ve had to examine in the past two months. I can see why Glorfindel thought it would interest me,” said Thranduil, looking at the girl with a hint of disgust.

    “Third?”

    “There have been two others just like it; young girls found dead in water after being reported missing. This is Lucy Somers; her parents have been looking for her since November.”

    Bard shivered. “Is that what Mithrellas was talking about at the paper? When I first started, she said to Haldir that she needed information on a missing person’s case, and that you knew about it since you had done the post-mortem.”

    “Catherine Pringle. And then it was Annabelle Walker.”

    “You don’t think it could just be a coincidence?”

    Thranduil laughed bitterly. “I wish. But these girls didn’t drown, they were only found in water.”

    “So someone killed them?” Bard whispered, hardly daring to believe it. He looked down at Lucy, and remembered seeing his wife’s body. Audrey had been peaceful in death. Lucy just looked… dead.

    With a heavy sigh, Thranduil brought a large lamp down over Lucy’s body and switched it on.

    It wasn’t a nice process to watch. Thranduil was very gentle, but it still seemed disgraceful to undress a young woman and examine her. Bard looked away as her dress was discarded with wet slap into a tin tray.

    Curiosity got the better of him, however, and he eventually turned back. Lucy’s body bore quite a few signs of harm. Thranduil spotted multiple bruises, and a wide, badly-stitched wound above her stomach. The smell coming off her was getting worse.

    "How can you stand it?" Bard wheezed, covering his nose again. 

    "You stop noticing it pretty quickly," Thranduil explained with a wry smile. "It's the cold that I can't get used to."

    He took photos of the injuries and then wheeled the body in for an x-ray.

    “What are you looking for?” Bard said, as he and Thranduil examined the x-rays on a computer twenty minutes later.

    “That,” said Thranduil, pointing a gloved hand to a dark, oddly-shaped something sitting above the girl’s stomach. “Whoever this killer is, he likes consistency. The other two girls had objects inside them as well.”

    “What, he put something _inside_ them?” Bard said, his stomach heaving.

    Thranduil nodded. “Catherine had… well… she had her own baby’s umbilical cord inside her, which had been used to strangle her, and Annabelle had a feather and… I can’t really see what Lucy has.”

    He printed the x-rays and they returned to the morgue.

    “Do you think the killer is trying to make a connection with them?” Bard said.

    Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “I’m a pathologist, Bard, not a detective. I’ll give my findings to Glorfindel and that’ll be that.”

    “But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know more?”

    “It’s not my job to know more.”

    “Seriously?”

    “Seriously.”

    Thranduil approached Lucy’s body and retrieved a pair of scissors from the table beside the gurney. He started to snip at the stitches, which were not made with silk or dental floss, but with bright pink, plastic lace, which was typically used for arts and crafts. As each stitch was cut, the wound popped open a little more. Unhealed, it oozed with pus and blood and water sloshed out of it onto the gurney. It was about the right size for a hand to fit inside her, which is exactly what Thranduil did. He all but plunged into Lucy’s body, groping around for whatever was in there.

    “Feeling squeamish?” he said, shooting Bard a rather nasty grin.

    “How can you be so calm?” Bard said, his voice unnaturally high as he watched Lucy’s skin writhe and twist where Thranduil’s hand was moving.

    “She can’t feel it.”

    Thranduil groped about a little more until, with a satisfied smile, he pulled his hand back out, holding what appeared to be a candle stub.

    He looked at it absently, shook his head, and place it in a tray, blood dripping from the wick.

    “What now?” said Bard.

   “I’ll run some tests, and her family will probably be here soon to identify the body.”

    Bard shuddered. He remembered having to do that when his wife died.

    "Don't you have to do an autopsy?" he asked.

    "Not yet. I'll do it tomorrow."

    Thranduil ran the tests and collected the evidence into a box for the police to deal with. There was nothing else exceptionally interesting about Lucy’s death, except for the fact that she had indeed drowned, unlike the other two girls. Thranduil cleaned her body, and then draped a cloth over her until her parents arrived. Bard went upstairs to the cafeteria for this, not wishing to witness their grief. After that, the body was put away, and Bard and Thranduil went home.

    “I take it you didn’t enjoy that very much,” said Thranduil, starting the car.

    “It was… educational,” said Bard.

    “If I had known, I would not have brought you.”

    “I have some ideas for my novel, though.”

    “Well, thank goodness for that,” said Thranduil with a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

                                    _Subject: The Body in the Water._

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_From: B. Bowman_

_Thorny._

_I hardly know what to think or say concerning what I have just witnessed. Thranduil took me to a crime scene, of which there have been two others just like it. Three girls, all with strange objects sewn inside them. I can’t help but think there must be a connection between them, but Thranduil wasn’t overly indulgent on information. Hopefully there won’t be a fourth girl…_

_It was fascinating to see the post-mortem, as well as completely disturbing. Thranduil… he has this way of being so respectful to the dead. I mean, he’s been doing it for years, but I never thought someone could perform a post-mortem with so much precision and understanding, even when he was all but rummaging inside the girl to get the candle that had been sewn in her. It was quite mesmerizing to watch, when I wasn’t about to run to the nearest bin and be sick._

_To think I’m writing a crime novel…_

_I hope your Christmas was good and that the New Year is treating you kindly. Mine is testing my gag reflexes so far._

_Bard._

* * *

 

 

_Subject: Re: The Body in the Water._

_To: B. Bowman_

_From: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_Bard,_

_What if Thranduil is secretly the killer?_

_Arathorn._

* * *

 

 

_Subject: Re: Re: The Body in the Water._

_To: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_From: B. Bowman_

_Thorny,_

_When are you coming to visit so I can kick your arse?_

_Bard._

* * *

 

 

_Subject: Re: Re: Re: The Body in the Water._

_To: B. Bowman_

_From: Arathorn @ Dunedain & Co_

_Bard._

_I’ll come over when you have something for me to read._

_Arathorn._

 

* * *

 

 

    After a very thorough shower with two pints of lemon juice, Bard spent the rest of that day shovelling the snow out of the driveway, trying not to think about the cold, empty eyes of Lucy Somers. Thranduil came out to help, and together they manage to carve paths in the snow to walk to the garage and drive to the front gate. Bard tested it out by getting the car to pick his kids up from school. He didn’t want them to walk in the snow again.

    He didn’t tell them about the day he’d had. He couldn’t bear to subject them to even a story about what awful things he had witnessed. True, it hadn’t been _very_ bad, but it still left him feeling a little spooked, especially given the gruesomeness of it all.

    Haldir had sent through some articles for Bard to work on. One of them was about Lucy, and Bard gave a brief account of the incident, being careful not to divulge more information than he needed to.

    He stayed up late that night, going through pages and pages of his novel and combing through its details. Bard wanted to improve it, but his discoveries that day weren’t much help after all and he fell asleep on the sofa, the laptop humming on his chest.

         

    The next day was Friday, and there was no milk in the morning. Bard silently cursed his kids for leaving the empty carton in the fridge. He cast a filthy look at the black coffee in his hand and took it with him downstairs to see if Thranduil might be able to rectify his dilemma.

    He was sitting at the marble-top bench in the kitchen, reading the morning paper. A white lab coat lay beside him.

    “Morning,” said Bard.

    “Good morning. Did you write this?”

    Bard paused, setting his mug on the table to look at the article Thranduil was reading. It was the one about Lucy Somers.

    “Yes.”

    “It’s good.”

    “It’s not even three-hundred words!”

    “That’s what’s good about it.”

    “Do you have milk?”

    Thranduil nodded, still reading the article. Taking the confirmation as permission, Bard opened the refrigerator.

    He had barely taken a moment to look inside when Thranduil let out a strangled cry.

    “Wait!”

    “What?”

    Bard stared into the contents of the fridge with bewilderment, wondering if a ghost might leap out at him. He saw milk, cabbage, butter and…

    “Holy shit, is that a brain?”

    The door slammed shut with the tinkle of bottles knocking inside. Thranduil stood there, pink in the face with alarm.

    “It’s – nothing – research,” he mumbled.

    “Do you normally keep bodily organs with your meat products?” Bard asked, doing his absolute best to act as if this was perfectly normal.

    “Well, I don’t usually expect my tenants to come barging into my kitchen,” said Thranduil exasperatedly.

    “I didn’t come barging in!”

    “Who even has the indecency to run out of milk?”

    “I have three kids, in case you didn’t notice. It’s all well and good for you to ignore yours, but –”

    Bard broke off, but it was too late. Heat rose to his ears and Thranduil’s hand slid weakly down the door of the refrigerator. He looked stunned.

    “I’m – I’m sorry.”

    But there was no apprehending such callousness. Thranduil’s shock was already subsiding into hurt anger. His blue eyes flashed dangerously.

    Bard understood his place at once. Without another word, he left the kitchen with his head bowed, not bothering to take his coffee.

 

    He heard footsteps coming up the stairs almost an hour later while he was writing. Thranduil approached, holding two steaming mugs, one of which was Bard’s.

    He hesitated on the top step, steeling himself. Bard knew it would be hard for him to be up here. In the two months Bard had lived in the flat, Thranduil had not once set foot inside it, save for when he had shown Bard around on the first day.

    But Thranduil took a breath and crossed the threshold. Bard sat up straighter, setting his laptop on the coffee table.

    Thranduil sat beside him on the sofa, putting the mugs next to the laptop. For a long moment, there was a heavy silence.

    “Do you think it’s wrong?”

    “What?”

    “That I send them away to school.”

    “It’s not really for me to say…”

    “Surely you have an opinion.”

    Bard thought, uncertain if he ought to sympathise or criticise. He wasn’t really in a position to criticise, and he also didn’t think Thranduil deserved harsh judgment. Bard had seen the hauntings of this house, and he was nervous to even have his own children live among them.

    “It’s a good school, isn’t it?”

    Thranduil nodded.

    “We always do what we think is best for our children… and sometimes what is best for them is to grow up away from their parents. It doesn’t make your love for them any lesser.”

    Thranduil stared down at his hands.

    “I handled things very badly when Andaeriel died,” he said softly. “I blamed the house. I was convinced it was cursed or haunted and I was comforted to know that Legolas and Tauriel were far away from it. But I wonder if it was the right decision, regardless of how I feel about this place. They are all the family I have left, and I am losing them as well.”

    Thranduil said it dully, as if he had rehearsed it.

    “Why do you stay, then?” Bard asked, shifting awkwardly. “Sell the house; leave it behind.”

    “What if it isn’t the house? What if it’s me as well?”

    “How can it possibly be you?”

    Thranduil shrugged – an unnatural reaction for his broad shoulders – and he cast Bard a cautious look.

    “Everyone I have loved in this house has died. That’s why I send Legolas and Tauriel away; I believe they will be safer.”

    Bard could have sworn he felt a cold presence filter through him as Thranduil said this. He brushed it off, trying to clear his head. He couldn’t tell Thranduil what he had seen that night on the stairs; it wouldn’t put his troubles any more at ease. But he also couldn’t let the man wallow in such desolation. Bard believed that Thranduil was perhaps haunted in a way no human being should, but that didn’t imply it was his fault. Bard was pretty convinced it was just the house, playing tricks on the people who refused to leave it alone.

   “You must think I’ve lost my senses. I know it sounds daft…” Thranduil said, filling the silence that had blossomed between them.

    “No!” said Bard quickly. “Not at all.”

    “Perhaps my imagination has been too long in the dark.”

    “Or perhaps you’ve just been alone for too long.”

    Thranduil stiffened, his hands bone-white fists in his lap. He shot Bard another wary look, which Bard caught and held.

    “I know what it’s like,” he said. “It’s like the entire world has fallen out from underneath you; like you couldn’t possibly love again because your heart is buried with her. But you learn to dig it out again. Love isn’t there to be grieved and forgotten. Maybe that’s all this house needs; a bit of love.”

    Thranduil snorted. “It has had a taste and killed it. You can hardly blame me for not being optimistic.”

    “No, I don’t. But wallowing in the past never helps. It’s better to leave it behind.”

    “It’s hard to forget.” Thranduil eyes broke away to the boarded-up door.

    Bard followed them. “It must have been very hard for you.”

    “I saw it happen.”

    Bard’s inside recoiled and he tore his gaze away from the balcony and back to Thranduil, who was still staring.

    “This used to be a parlour. My wife would play the piano up here – beautifully, too. You could hear her play through the entire house all the way to the gardens. I was outside with Legolas and Tauriel. Andaeriel was waving to me from the balcony, asking me to come in and help her compose some music – she was a wonderful pianist, you know. But the railing is low and she was leaning too far over. She lost her footing. I can’t think of snow without seeing the blood from her head pooling into it.”

    “Did – did Legolas –” Bard couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.

    “Neither he nor Tauriel saw her fall. We had just gotten two dogs, so they were distracted. But I was too shocked to prevent them from seeing the body; I wish I had spared them that, at least.”

    Thranduil was very pale, but he finally looked away from the door.

    “How can you stand to be a pathologist after seeing that?” Bard asked.

    “I stopped working for a long time after it happened. But when the grief started to subside, I returned to the morgue. I find it quite cathartic, working with dead bodies and finding out why or how a person died. It’s relaxing, and it helps people.”

    “But it doesn’t help you.”

    Thranduil blinked rapidly, his eyes glistening. Then, he took a sip of coffee, composing himself. “It does. It makes my life feel normal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regarding the fridge scene... i humbly admit i stole that from BBC Sherlock, but Thranduil just seems like the type if i'm honest.


	6. Chapter 6

Bard was visited by a strange 'dream' again that night. He only called them dreams because he couldn’t think of any other word for them. He wasn’t sure if they were memories, or ghosts playing their tricks on him, or even his own imagination running completely wild.

    This time, the sound of a piano playing carried over to his bedroom. It was clear, coming from the sitting room. Sighing, Bard got out of bed and went to investigate. This wasn’t something that ought to feel normal to him.

    The sitting room was bathed in the same misty sunshine from the last dream, and everything looked different. The balcony door was no longer boarded-up, and Bard's lounge suite was missing. In its place, a woman sat at a piano, her long fingers dancing across the keys and singing a beautiful tune. Bard couldn’t see her face, but he guessed she was very beautiful; her hair was dark red and so long it nearly touched the unfamiliar rug. It moved oddly, as if it was woven from air or water, ceaselessly twisting.

    She paused her playing, stretching up to write down some music notes on a sheet of paper on top of the piano. She chewed the end of her pen for a moment and wrote a little more. The music echoed loudly. She played, wrote, played again, and then with a disgruntled sigh, she stood up.

    Bard didn’t want to watch what was about to happen. He knew what he was witnessing as soon as she crossed over to the balcony. He wanted to shout, to stop her, but he knew there was no point. She was already outside, her long robe sweeping the snow on the balcony. She was waving down to someone and calling out, her voice silky and laughing. Bard watched in horror as she leaned too far over the railing. One of her feet slipped out of a shoe and she fell. Her red hair caught momentarily on the balustrade, and then she was gone. Bard heard no scream. All sound was muffled by his shock.

    He walked forward. He could feel the warmth of the fire crackling in the grate nearby, and feel the freezing contrast of the wind swirling the snow into the house. He wanted to see… see if she was all right.

    But he smacked right into the door, his forehead hitting a nail that was sticking out from one of the timber panels that boarded it up. Rubbing his head, Bard swore and squinted in the darkness. The fire was gone, and so was the piano.

 

    Another month passed before anything else exciting happened, and by exciting, Bard was thankful not to refer to the curious dreams. One of the writers at the newspaper fell sick with pneumonia, so Bard was instructed to pick up their slack. He wrote almost tirelessly, working on one article, then another, then another. He took breaks to write his own novel, which was coming along slowly, but steadily. And when he wasn’t working or sleeping or complaining, he was spending time with his children, who were becoming bored cooped up in the old manor. With so much snow, there was little to do except have snowball fights or build snowmen, and even that lost its charm after a while.

    It was Valentine’s Day, not that it mattered to Bard. The weather was miserable, which suited his mood; snow had turned to sleet and slush and it was wet all the time. It hailed and stormed and the house shuddered and creaked in the battering wind. In the midst of it, the front door could be heard opening and closing.

    Getting up from the sofa, Bard wandered downstairs to see Thranduil, who was being swept in with the rain and wind, pink-faced and tired, returning from the hospital after having come down with some suspicious symptoms.

    “What’s the verdict?” Bard asked, as Thranduil climbed the stairs to join him.

    “I have laryngitis,” Thranduil wheezed.

    “Told you.”

    Thranduil shot Bard a furious look, and Bard grinned sheepishly.

    “Did you get some meds?”

    Thranduil nodded, and drew out a dark bottle of liquid from his pocket.

    “I’m guessing you’re not allowed to talk?”

    Thranduil nodded again, and Bard laughed.

    Thranduil hit him.

    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t say it’ll make much difference; you don’t say a lot to begin with.”

    Thranduil didn’t react to this. He waved a hand, coughed horribly, and then retreated to his bedroom to sleep. He hadn’t slept well at all for the past few days, as the cough was keeping him awake at night. For all of Bard’s teasing, he did feel a little sorry for Thranduil.

 

    Later that day, Bard took his laptop to use the printer in the library. He found Thranduil in there, wrapped in a great many blankets and curled up in an armchair, reading a book. He did not acknowledge Bard, but knew he was there.

    The printer whirred through their silence. Bard was aware that Thranduil had stopped reading, but still did not say anything. He felt unnerved by this way that Thranduil watched him; like he was studying him.

    “Are – are you taking time off work?” Bard asked finally, trying to keep his voice steady.

    Thranduil shook his head.

    “And you call yourself a doctor. You should know better than to work when you’re ill.”

    Thranduil scowled. Then, setting aside his book, he leaned across the armchair and fetched a scrap of paper and pen from the table. He scribbled on it and handed it to Bard.

    _Celeborn has pneumonia._

    Bard read the note. “So does Hilda. It must be spreading. Does that mean you’re the only one in the morgue?”

    Thranduil nodded.

    “Do you need any help?”

    Thranduil stared at Bard for moment, his mouth slightly parted, and then he shook his head very slowly.

    While Thranduil returned to his book, Bard set to work organising the stacks of paper churning out of the printer. He was printing some two dozen poems and the first several chapters of his novel, hoping to impress Arathorn.

    He heard the scratching of a pen as he was trying to put the poems in an order he liked. Thranduil was writing another note under the first one. He slid the paper across the table to Bard.

    _I’m going to start charging you for ink._

    Bard chuckled. “That seems fair.”

    Thranduil retrieved the paper and wrote again.

    _What are you printing?_

    “Some poems I wrote over the last year, and the beginning of my novel. I haven’t given my editor anything lately and he’s starting to get a bit shirty with me.”

  _May I read them?_

    Bard paled at this note, staring at the elegant loops and the flourish of the question mark. It was such an old fashioned script that Bard actually had trouble reading it. How very typical of a doctor.

    “Er – well I was actually going to have it reviewed by my editor tomorrow. He’s finally coming to visit,” he said uneasily.

    Thranduil pouted. _Please? I crave to read more of your work._

    Bard’s heart skipped a beat for so long it was a wonder it managed to keep going again when he took a breath.

    “Well, alright. I suppose I could use a second opinion.”

    Before he handed over the manuscripts, however, Bard withdrew a couple of pages from the poems and scrunched them up, stuffing them into his pocket. Thranduil didn’t need to read that one.

    Abandoning his book completely, Thranduil set to reading the first chapter of Bard’s novel, which as yet still needed a name. Feeling very self-conscious, Bard picked up his laptop and made to leave, but stopped at the door.

    “Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

    Thranduil looked up from the manuscript, blinking in surprise. Then, he smiled very politely, nodded his thanks, and Bard shut the library door.

 

    He returned home from work the next day to find Thranduil in the library again. He was clad once more in several blankets, looking like a colourful lump in the armchair with blonde hair and hands.

    “I’m gonna have to ask for my manuscripts back,” said Bard, extending a hand to take them.

    Thranduil clutched the papers to his chest. He was not yet halfway through them.

    “Would you rather I waste your ink printing another copy?”

    Thranduil hesitated. For a moment, Bard thought he might actually agree to this, but he dutifully handed back the manuscripts and, with a series of odd hand gestures, told Bard he was going for a walk.

    Arathorn arrived not long after this. Bard had no idea, of course, as he couldn’t hear the doorbell from so high up, and received a call on his mobile.

    “Can you let me in?” said a gruff voice in the receiver.

    “I’ll be down in a minute."

    Arathorn was not at all impressed by the house. He admitted it was grand, but commented on the peeling wallpaper and the broken elevator with an air of superiority.

    “You hate this place on principle,” Bard admonished. “It’s not that bad.”

    “It’s freezing,” Arathorn grumbled.

    “I’ve got a fire going upstairs.”

    “A fire?”

    “Heating costs too much.”

    “When are you moving out?”

    Bard knew Arathorn meant this as a joke, but he was struck with a pang of anxiety. The thought of ever leaving this place felt unnatural to Bard. He had called it home for a few months now and had nothing to complain about. It even felt a little less haunted than since he had first moved in, despite the ghostly dreams. And to move away and live somewhere that didn’t have Thranduil in it felt like an impossibility all of a sudden. Bard had grown very fond of his landlord.

    Thankfully, Arathorn was a great deal more impressed with Bard’s work. He made many corrections and offered more advice than was probably necessary, but Bard appreciated it all the same. He liked Arathorn. He was a good editor and a good friend and it was thanks to him that Bard actually had books to gain income from.

    Bain, Tilda and Sigrid came home from school, and the five of them had dinner. Then, Bard gave Arathorn a proper tour of the house, showing him the library and the gardens.

    “I guess it is nice,” Arathorn said reluctantly. “It’s probably teeming with creepy history, but it’s charming.”

    “That’s what I thought. I like it here.”

    “So you won’t move back home? Everyone really misses you.”

    “This is home now. I can’t go back there.”

    “Fair enough. You’re not all that far, really. It was only an hour to get here. It’s bloody cold, though.”

    Bard laughed. “I should have warned you. This is the warmest day we’ve had all winter.”

    "I'm surprised at your resilience towards this place, especially with these ghosts you've told me about."

    "They're not bad ghosts."

    "Don't say it so casually; it's unnerving," Arathorn said with a grimace.

    "I can't help it. My stuff goes missing too often to be any other way about it."

    "To hell with the ghosts. They sound wretched."

    "They're fine."

    “How about your elusive landlord? Is he still being friendly?”

    “Yes. He has laryngitis.”

    “Does that make the relationship hard?”

    “What?”

    “Come off it, Bard, it’s obvious you like him.”

    “No it isn’t. He’s just nice.”

    “If you say so.”

    Bard frowned, and followed Arathorn back inside to say goodbye to him. Dusk had fallen, and the wind was picking up again, swirling the dirt and unmelted snow into the windows.

    “He has kids, rights? Imagine growing up in a place like this,” Arathorn remarked, observing the dark chandelier in the entrance hall.

    “Legolas and Tauriel go to boarding school. But I expect they’ll be home for Easter.”

    “Legolas? Hey, do they go to the same school as Aragorn? He has a friend called Legolas.”

    Bard raised his eyebrows. “Small world,” he said.

    “Tiny. Anyway, I better go or Gilraen will worry. Come for dinner soon, yeah? And bring more of that story; it’s coming along very nicely!”

    Bard nodded, and he said farewell to his friend. Arathorn waved and tooted the horn of his car before trundling down the driveway and out of sight.

    A figure appeared at Bard’s shoulder, casting a long shadow over the door. He jumped in shock, for a moment thinking again of ghosts.

    “Christ. What?”

    Thranduil handed him a slip of paper.

  _I know his son._

    “That’s all you have to say? Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

    Thranduil gave Bard a scandalized look and then returned to the kitchen, where a single, empty plate sat on the dining table. Bard felt a sting of pity for Thranduil. He ate alone every day while Bard had three kids to keep him company.

    He hurried after Thranduil.

    “Would you – tomorrow – would you like to come up for dinner?” he asked quickly.

    Thranduil’s hand halted in the process of retrieving his plate. He cast his gaze up through the ceiling, as if he might be able to see through the floors to the Bard’s flat. He chewed his lip, and then shook his head.

    “Oh,” said Bard, understanding. “I’m sorry. I just thought… you might want some company.”

    Thranduil’s expression softened. It seemed that every time Bard said something like this, Thranduil went into shock. How long had it been since he had been treated with kindness? Why did he insist on being alone?

    But of course, Bard knew why. Thranduil’s… superstitions about the house and himself were far-fetched, but it was clear he was confident in them (and so was Bard, come to think of it). Bard knew better than to try and force him out of his comfort zone. People like Thranduil needed time, and Bard was willing to wait.

 

    There was a _bang_ in the middle of the night. So loud it was that it echoed through the walls and everyone woke with a start. Bard nearly tumbled out of bed, groggy and half-conscious and praying this wasn’t going to be more ghosts.

    The bang was followed by loud barking. This surely meant it was real. Bard scrambled to his feet and went to see what the commotion was. He could hear footsteps on the floor below, and saw lights being switched on. He met Thranduil downstairs, who was pulling on a jumper and looking worried. Together, they hurried to the source of the barking, which was coming from the kitchen.

    Emma and Eileen were snapping and whining at the pantry door, jumping up and scratching the glass pane. Bard could hear crying from inside.

    “Sigrid!” Bard exclaimed

    There was a small moan, and then a heavy thud. Thranduil approached the door and made a grab for the handle, tugging it furiously. But it wouldn’t budge. Outside, the wind howled and shook the house, making the dogs bark louder.

    “What going on?”

    Bain and Tilda stood at the entrance to the kitchen, rubbing their eyes and shivering in their pyjamas.

    “Sigrid’s stuck in the pantry. Can you please do something with the dogs?” said Bard.

    They obliged, dragging the yelping and scrabbling dogs by their collars to the sitting room and shutting them in.

    Thranduil yanked the handle fruitlessly again. As he did so, the wind swarmed around the house and it seemed to take a huge, shuddering breath. A window slammed closed in another room. The pantry door was sucked forward another centimetre, and Thranduil was pulled in with it. He looked scared now, and Bard wondered if he thought it was spirits pulling the handle from the other side.

    Bard tried to see through the glass, but it was too dark. He used all the strength he had on the door, but it was wedged in completely. It was a wonder the hinges had not bent out of the frame.

    He felt a tap on his shoulder, and Thranduil was standing there with a hammer. Moving hastily out of the way, Bard watched as he swung the hammer onto the glass at the bottom. It didn’t shatter, but an impression was made and Thranduil hit it again in the same spot. The glass cracked some more and Bard kicked it in with his heel, scattering it inside the pantry.

    He knelt down and peered through the hole. Sigrid was unconscious on the floor next to a tin of biscuits, but she was breathing. The glass had not harmed her.

    Thranduil beat out the rest of the glass outwards through the original hole until, after an agonising few minutes, Bard was able to climb through and pull Sigrid out. As he did so, he saw a hole in the floorboards, right under one of the shelves. It was blowing freezing wind in and out of the pantry, which had evidently been the reason for the door getting so stuck. The wind was strong enough that Bard was surprised the whole roof hadn’t flown off.

    “She’s okay,” Bard said in response to Thranduil’s silent frets. “I think she was sleepwalking.”

    Sigrid mumbled in his arms and Bard hitched her up with a bit of effort. She was much heavier than Tilda.

    He took her back upstairs while Thranduil cleaned up the glass. Bain and Tilda shuffled in the wake of their father, still slightly confused and half-asleep. They helped put Sigrid to bed and, once he was certain she was safe again, Bard went back to the kitchen. He let the dogs out on his way there, and they snuffled at his feet, whining with concern.

    Thranduil was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, still sweeping up the glass. Bard bent down beside him and helped.

    “We should have that hole plastered up,” he said quietly. “There must be lots of holes like this all over the place. No wonder the house gets so cold.”

    He looked at Thranduil, but Thranduil did not look at him. His silence suggested there was more than just laryngitis getting in the way of his speech. Bard sighed.

    “She’s okay. Don’t feel bad or anything.”

    Thranduil did at last raise his head. Worry and nerves crinkled in between his eyebrows.

    “I know you think it’s the house’s fault, but Sigrid’s been sleepwalking ever since her mother died. I always find her digging in the pantry at the dead of night a few weeks after we move in somewhere new. It’s just taken her a bit longer this time because the house is so much bigger than she’s used to.”

    Bard knew there was little point in reassuring Thranduil, but he felt the need to say this all the same. He felt that Thranduil was given so little explanation in his life that it was time he was offered some. It was time for him to be told that his haunted home wasn’t out to get him.

    “How about we find the rest of the holes tomorrow?” Bard suggested hopefully when Thranduil did not respond. “And we – er – can call an exterminator.”

    Thranduil’s lips formed the weakest of smiles, and then he nodded, brushing up the rest of the glass into the dustpan and standing up. He observed his broken pantry door for a moment, but decided it wasn’t worth a second thought and he went to the bin. Then, he pointed to the kettle.

    “Yeah, okay,” Bard said. He could always do with some tea, even at three in the morning.

    Thranduil brought a pen and an old envelope with the tea to the table and, sitting down with Bard, he started to write on it.

    _How did your wife die?_

    Bard smiled a little sadly.

    “She was a Radiologist. While working with a trainee, she got a full blast of radiation after the trainee accidentally pressed the button when she was in the room.”

    Thranduil’s mouth fell open. He wrote on the envelope again.

    _Did she get sick?_

    “Yeah. She died barely three days later. I’m glad I got to say goodbye, though. And the kids, too. Tilda doesn’t really remember, but Bain and Sigrid took it pretty badly. Sigrid didn’t want to be a doctor anymore, that’s for sure.”

    Thranduil nodded sympathetically. He allowed a moment of silence out of respect, and then wrote again on the envelope.

    _How did you come to move around so much?_

    “Money got tight, that’s all. Audrey’s job was our main source of income. I had no proper qualifications and no material to offer my editor, so it just became a game of city-hopping whenever I was given a job. The kids have changed schools more times than I can count. I’ve tried to keep them at each one for at least a year, but it’s still no way to get an education. I’m – I’m hoping this will be it until they graduate.”

    Thranduil’s expression fell oddly still as Bard said this, as though he was holding back his honest response.

    _You would stay here?_

    “Yeah! I mean, for as long as you’ll have us. This is the first time in years since I’ve had a chance to properly settle my family down. The schools are good, my job is relatively steady, and the location… well, the location is pretty lousy, but I can’t complain if the rent is cheap.”

    Bard dared a grin, but it wasn't returned. Thranduil wrote again.

  _You don’t have to pay rent anymore._

    As soon as Bard read this, Thranduil got to his feet and strode from the kitchen, leaving half his tea undrunk. Bard hastened after him, switching off the light as he did so.

    “I can’t not pay rent,” he protested, catching Thranduil on the stairs. “That would make me a squatter.”

    Thranduil gasped repeatedly at this, which was the closest he could come to laughing. Bard bit back his own laugh at the sound of it.

    “I’m serious. I won’t live in your house for free.”

    Thranduil shrugged noncommittally and continued up the stairs. Bard went with him.

    “Why would you do this for me? Is it charity? Because that just makes me feel like shit.”

    Evidently this was not the case, because Thranduil’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. Bard folded his arms, demanding an answer.

    Thranduil looked as though he wanted to give Bard what he wanted. He chewed his lip and shuffled his feet and opened and closed his mouth several times like a fish. He was frustrated by his speech-paralysis, Bard could tell. He wrung his hands and the moment built and built with tension like a balloon as Bard waited for a more definite reply and Thranduil refused to give one, too caught up in his own stalling.

    Then, with a defeated sigh, he leaned forward and kissed Bard full on the mouth.

    Too stunned to react to this, Bard fell utterly short. His heart clamoured uselessly in his chest and, just as he was about to return the kiss, Thranduil withdrew.

    He all but vanished into thin air. Bard opened his eyes and the door of Thranduil’s bedroom was already closing. Bard ran his hands down his face, hating himself.

    Maybe if he went to bed, he would wake up to find this was all a painful dream.


	7. Chapter 7

It didn’t turn out to be a dream; painful, yes, but not a dream. Bard woke early and, though exhausted, could not go back to sleep. He could think only of the brushing of Thranduil’s lips on his own, and the intense hunger he felt at not knowing them more intimately. What a fool he was, to have not reacted faster. And what a fool he was to have not known he wanted to.

    Bard sought to make amends. He want to return the kiss; earnestly and wholly and completely. But Thranduil disappeared from the house almost entirely. He rose early and worked late, coming home and taking his dogs for very long walks and then spending the rest of the evening in his bedroom, which Bard did not dare intrude upon. Thranduil was very obviously avoiding Bard, and Bard found this to be quite an impressive feat considering they lived in the same house.

    He tried instead a more subtle approach. He went to the store and bought chocolates and, while Thranduil was still at work, he slipped into the study to plant them on his desk.

    Bard had never been inside Thranduil’s study properly before. It was an extension of the library and the adjoining door was crammed between some bookshelves. A tall window shed light on a chase lounge and a heavy-looking desk where papers, books, pens and various other items were scattered with a laptop.

    Bard went over to the desk and set the chocolates down with a note. He was about to leave, but a glint of silver caught his eye. A picture frame. Bard picked it up to look at the photograph inside. It was of the woman Bard had seen in his latest ‘dream,’ her red hair spilling out to the very edges of the photo. She was laughing at the camera, and beside her was a small, blonde boy. They had the same nose and chin, and he was sticking his tongue out at a much younger Tauriel, who shared her aunt’s vibrant hair. They looked very happy.

    Gazing around, Bard noticed there were more pictures on the fireplace mantel. His curiosity peaking, he went over to see them. There was Legolas and Tauriel again in their school uniform, and Thranduil’s wife in a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a basket full of berries, and two Doberman puppies in matching sweaters. There was only one photo of Thranduil, and in it he was with his wife, carrying Tauriel on his shoulders while Legolas held his mother’s hand. They were walking through the snow-capped trees of the neighbouring forest, and the soft expression on Thranduil’s face made Bard’s heart leap to his throat. It was hard to imagine that Thranduil had once been anything but cold and indifferent, but there had been a time when his heart wasn’t broken. And that was the true tragedy of grief; it killed all things good and kind and beautiful.

 

    Thranduil’s silence went on for several days, despite the chocolates and Bard’s persistent hovering in the library. By the time the weekend rolled around, he had grown impatient. Thranduil simply could not avoid him forever.

    So the notes continued. Determined to appeal to his better nature, Bard placed a fresh, newly edited copy of his manuscript at the foot of Thranduil’s bedroom door. In return, he found a scrap of paper taped to front door that said ‘ _thank you_.’

    “Da, why aren’t you and Mister Thranduil speaking to each other?” Tilda asked when she saw the note. She took it down and handed it to Bard.

    “It’s just… a little game adults sometimes play,” he mumbled.

    Bain snorted, but Bard ignored him.

    He knew it was going to take Thranduil time to come to terms with his feelings. Thranduil would need to once more dismantle the walls around himself. But that was okay.

    It became very much like the game Tilda believed it to be. Thranduil’s laryngitis still had a week left of recovery, so Bard used it to his advantage. He was a writer, after all, however loosely he used that term.

    **I’ve thought of a name for my book. The Body in the Water.**

    _I wasn’t aware crime and autobiography could mix._

  **It can’t, but I never said it was an autobiography. Did you like what I had so far?**

  _I did._

    **That’s all you have to say?**

  _I can’t very well say I enjoyed it when I don’t know what happens at the end. You’ve left it on an awful cliff-hanger._

    **I don’t know what happens next. Hopefully I’ll find out soon.**

    _Are you waiting for something exciting to happen?_

    **Perhaps. I usually wait for you to do something and then drag me along in your wake.**

    _You came willingly to that lake, as I recall. There was no dragging involved. ‘No sign of a struggle,’ I believe is the correct term._

    **I want to investigate.**

    _You’ll need a badge for that._

    **I don’t need to be a cop to investigate.**

    _Glorfindel would disagree._

    **Surely he could use some help.**

    _Life isn’t a book, Bard._

    **It can be if you try hard enough.**

    _You’re full of nonsense. You barely leave the house – how will you investigate a series of murders?_

    **You forget I work for a newspaper.**

    _That doesn’t make you a journalist._

  **Why do you crush my spirit so?**

    _You’re adding to the infestation._

    **Ha Ha. When are we fixing the holes in the house?**

    _First investigations, now fixes. You’re a tenant, Bard, remember?_

    **Do you normally kiss your tenants?**

    This last note was received with another bout of silence, which Bard had expected. To get Thranduil to speak to him again, he used his Friday off to repair the hole in the pantry. The glass in the door had still not been replaced. Judging by Thranduil’s general lack of care for the house, Bard doubted if new glass would ever get fitted unless it was he who arranged it.

    _Thank you for fixing my pantry,_ was the note Bard found on the stairs that evening.

  **Are you feeling better yet?**

    _I still can’t talk._

    **Can’t? Or won’t?**

    _I’m sorry I kissed you._

    **I don’t want you to be.**

  _I have made this very complicated._

  **How?**

    _What if the house is haunted?_

    **I’m not going to die, Thranduil.**

    _But let’s say…_

    **Fine, let’s say this house is haunted (and I understand your superstitions, believe me). Then I will say this; the house craves love, yet you have let it wither and die. The elevator, the holes in the floors, the stuck windows and fireplace dampers; a house needs love and care and all you have done is sit and grieve inside its walls. Of course it’s haunted; there’s nothing else for it be. But being haunted doesn’t make it a killer.**

  _How am I supposed to love something that takes and takes?_

    **You’re creating a vicious cycle. Has it taken me?**

    _Not yet._

    **I’m not going anywhere. I like it here. I like it here with you.**

    _What else do you like?_

  **A lot of things.**

    _Are you being deliberately vague?_

    **What do you like?**

    _You._

    **I like you too.**

  **I like the sharpness of your jaw. I like the gentleness of your fingers. I like the rarity of your smiles, so wild I might breathe in your joy. And I like the crook of your elbows where you roll up your sleeves, and the measured way you talk, and walk, and look at things like you’re seeing them for the first time. I like your laugh. I like your easy company. I like you and you and you, and what else could you possibly want to know about me that is nearly as important as that?**

    The snow was finally starting to melt away when Thranduil regained the use of his voice. Bard was upstairs with his children on the rug by the fire, putting a jigsaw puzzle together. Thranduil entered the flat, unhesitant this time.

    Bard stood up too quickly and the blood rushed to his head.

    “Will you walk with me?”

    He got his coat and scarf and put on his boots and met Thranduil downstairs in the hall. They looked at each other, and then went outside, heading for the forest.

    It was no longer white with snow. The leaves were damp and green and, walking along the muddy path, the trees seemed to come to life again, breathing in the coming spring.

    Bard and Thranduil walked in silence for a long time. Bard paid attention to the way Thranduil relished the freshness of the forest. His gloveless fingers brushed wet bushes and caught at stray branches overhead, showering himself in droplets of melted snow and rain. He bounced slightly as he walked, his shoulders proud and his arms swinging. He felt lighter; his entire presence was lifted.

    “I’ve done a lot of thinking these past weeks,” he said at last.

    Bard said nothing, deciding only to listen. It was strange to hear Thranduil speak again, and yet Bard remembered his voice perfectly. Clear and hard, like a drum.

    “And I think you’re right. It’s time I took care of the house; I have resented it for too long; blamed it, and myself, where there was no need for blame.”

    Thranduil looked at Bard, his blue eyes bright in the sun.

    “I had all but given up hope before you arrived. I tried so desperately to give the house a new purpose – tenants, and people, and life – but no family lasted more than a few months. They couldn’t stand me or the house. But you – you stayed. I was callous and reclusive, and yet you stayed.”

    “I told you,” said Bard. “I like you.”

    “Why?”

    “Why not?”

    Thranduil laughed. “I thought you were a writer. Give me a reason.”

    “You are the reason.”

    Thranduil smiled, and so did Bard. It pulled at every muscle in his mouth.

    “Why didn’t you say anything?”

    “Why didn’t you?”

    “You are teasing.”

    “You make it easy.”

    “I like your boldness; you are brash and bold and entirely tactless.”

    “Would you like me if I was anything else?”

    Thranduil’s lips quirked at another smile. It was so easy now, to make him smile. It always had been, really, but he had been keeping it in. Bard was glad he did not anymore.

    They reached the end of the trail, which was on the edge of the town. Thranduil looked down the hill to the dirty rooftops and sleeted roads, considering the poor view and the poor location. Everything about where he lived was dismal, and yet Bard could not help but love it completely. And that was the great beauty of places and houses and roads; that they did not matter if there was someone with you to make them beautiful anyway.

    “So, I definitely don’t have to pay rent now, right?” said Bard as they turned back to the trees.

    Thranduil laughed again. “Not with money, no.”

    “What am I paying with?”

    “I like your cooking,” said Thranduil, pondering this. “Your kisses aren’t bad, either.”

    “It wasn’t a proper kiss,” Bard mumbled.

    “Show me a proper kiss, then.”

    Bard did.


	8. Chapter 8

It was another month or two before Bard was fully convinced that ghosts were real. Greenwood Manor proved it one morning when he woke up. Before getting the kids out of bed for school, he went to the kitchen for coffee, but found someone already getting milk out of the fridge. It was a boy. He was partially transparent, and short enough that he had to stand on his tip-toes to pour milk into a mug on the counter.

    Bard rasped in disbelief, making the boy jumped in fright.

    “Ah!”

    The milk carton fell to the floor with a thud, but thankfully did not spill. The boy bent down quickly to pick it up, but his hand went right through it.

    “Damn it.”

    “Let me,” said Bard automatically, stepping forward to help him.

    “No, no I got it,” said the boy. He had a soft, careful voice.

    He held his hand above the carton for a moment, concentrating very hard. Then, he picked it up and put it back in the fridge.

    “There. I’m getting really good at that,” he said cheerfully.

    “Who are you?” said Bard, rubbing his eyes and hoping he was going to wake up again soon.

    “I’m Thranduil,” said the boy.

    And he was. He had the same startling blue eyes as the Thranduil downstairs, and the same silver-blond hair, which was cut straight at his ears. He was wearing peculiar clothes as well; pinstriped pants, a white shirt, and a blue checkered waistcoat that was intentionally too big for him. Bard wasn’t sure what was more unbelievable; that there was a ghost of the boy-Thranduil in his flat, or that Thranduil would ever wear anything so unfashionable. But then, if this really was Thranduil as a child, he was stuck in the 90s, which was very unfortunate.

    “Are you a ghost?” said Bard. He wondered if that was an indelicate question to ask.

    “I think so,” said Thranduil.

    “So, you’re dead?”

    “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

    “But if you’re dead, what about the Thranduil downstairs?”

    “I don’t like him very much.”

    “Is he Thranduil too?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “I don’t understand. How can you be dead and alive at the same time?”

    Thranduil frowned. “You don’t have to die to be dead.”

    "What is that supposed to mean?"

    "I'm what he left behind."

    Bard pondered this for a long moment. The young Thranduil occupied himself by putting the coffee away.

    “So you’re, like, Thranduil’s childhood in the form of his nine year-old self?” Bard finally concluded.

    “I’m ten!”

    “What are you doing here?”

    Thranduil shrugged. “I don't know. I'm not usually allowed up here."

    Bard sighed, wondering what might happen if he just went back to bed and pretended that this wasn't real.

    “I made you coffee," Thranduil said, pointing to the mug.

    “How do you know how I like it?”

    “I saw myself making it downstairs once.”

    “You follow Thranduil around?” said Bard, raising an eyebrow disapprovingly.

    “No!” said Thranduil indignantly. “But I like to see what I keep in the fridge sometimes, and I had a brain that day!”

    “Can Thranduil see you?”

    “No.”

    “But I can. Why?”

    “Beats me. I’m just a ghost.”

    “You’re not very scary for a ghost,” Bard teased, observing the boy. He was misty, like Bard was seeing him through a dense fog.

    “Who said ghosts were supposed to be scary?” Thranduil demanded.

    “No one, I suppose. Is there a particular reason you’re here? Or was it just to make me coffee?”

    Thranduil scratched his chin absent-mindedly, gazing around the flat curiously. “I’m not entirely sure how I ended up here. I was in the library, reading a book, and then I was here, and I know you always wake up at seven-thirty, so I decided to make you coffee. You drink it just like my mother does. Used to. Did.”

    “Huh. Well, thank you,” said Bard, stepping forward to take the coffee.

    “I’m going to finish my book now,” said Thranduil.

    He walked through Bard in the narrow space of the kitchen. It felt like a cold cloud passing through him. Bard turned around to watch Thranduil walk down the stairs, but the boy paused, facing Bard once again, his eyes so bright they could have been alive.

    “Can I come up here and read sometimes?” he asked.

    “Sure,” said Bard.

    “Thanks.” Thranduil ran down the stairs, but his feet didn’t make a sound.

 

 It was a quarter past eleven and rain now pelted against the windows of the library. Bard sat curled in an armchair, his laptop burning a hole through his jeans as he wrote. When he didn’t write, his thumbnail was in his mouth as he read over his novel, and then it would leap back to the keyboard with the rest of his hand to keep writing.

    The door opened, and then it closed, and a cascade of long blonde hair fell over Bard’s face, obscuring his vision.

    “Are you writing?”

    “Yes.”

    “Let’s go to lunch.”

    “I’m writing.”

    “And it’s raining. Let’s go to lunch.”

    “Alright,” said Bard, saving the document and getting up from the armchair. “Where have you been?”

    “On the phone. Legolas and Tauriel want to stay at boarding school. They likes their friends there.”

    “It’s further south, isn’t it?”

    Thranduil nodded and they left the library.

    “It must be nice in the south,” said Bard, watching the raining flicker in and out of view as they passed each window.

    “It probably is. But it’s miserable here, so we’ll go to lunch.”

    Lunch was pastries and coffee at one of the cafés in town. The owner made very good coffee and was lovely to talk to and Thranduil and Bard sometimes got free macaroons if there were any extra.

    Glorfindel was also a regular there. He came in off duty, shaking his long, curly hair out of a ponytail. He sat with Bard and Thranduil and complained about the busy morning he'd been having.

    “How’s the investigation going?” said Bard.

    “The one with the girls? It’s all dead ends,” said Glorfindel.

    “Well, they’re dead, aren’t they?” said Thranduil, smirking.

    “Don’t be indelicate, Thran. Your post-mortems gave me nothing.”

    “There was nothing to give. That’s not my fault.”

    “Well, at this point we’re just waiting for another body to turn up, but I’m rather hoping it doesn’t. And if it does, that it isn’t in water, because it makes it very hard to get them out.”

    “The killer is nothing if not consistent,” said Bard.

    “Consistency is foolhardy. That’s how you get caught.”

    “I don’t see you catching him,” said Thranduil.

    “Shouldn’t you be working?”

    “Shouldn’t you?”

    “I want to help with the investigation,” Bard interrupted.

    “If you get any leads, that would be great. We’re all stumped,” said Glorfindel.

    “Bard writes crimes novels so he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes,” said Thranduil.

    “You’re being unfair. I’m just interested, that’s all,” said Bard.

    “You and the rest of the town,” said Glorfindel. “Families are raving about these killings, especially ones with daughters, as you can imagine. Celebrían had to do a safety talk at the high school and university.”

    “Sigrid told us about that. She said it was very insightful.”

    “You aren’t worried for her?”

    Bard paled. “She’s twelve. That isn’t the targeted age.”

    “Don’t get caught up on consistency,” said Glorfindel darkly. “Trust me. I’ve seen my fair share of crap like this and it always takes an unexpected turn.”

    “Don’t be awful,” Bard groaned. “I don’t get enough sleep as it is.”

    “Sorry.”

    “All the girls were reported missing before they were found, right?” said Thranduil.

    “Right.”

    “If a family calls in their daughter missing, we ought to use it as a lead.”

    “Now who’s Sherlock Holmes?” Bard teased.

    Thranduil grinned and Bard settled for a smug expression.

    “I have to get back to work,” said Glorfindel, smirking at the pair of them.

    “Come for dinner later,” said Thranduil.

    Glorfindel looked amazed. “Dinner? At your place?”

    Thranduil nodded.

    “Alright. See you later.”

    They parted ways. Paying for the coffee, Thranduil and Bard waved goodbye to Bilbo and dashed back through the rain to the car.

    “You’re so friendly,” Bard remarked as Thranduil slunk into the traffic.

    “What do you mean?”

    “You actually like to be around people.”

    “Does that surprise you?”

    “Yes. I thought you were a shut-in.”

    Thranduil scowled. “I’m anxious. But I have you to thank for getting me out of the house.”

    “Me?”

    “You.”

    Thranduil smiled, and he didn’t seem to stop smiling until they got back home, where he only stopped to kiss Bard on the cheek before they went inside.

    “Do you think Glorfindel will catch the killer?” he asked.

    “I hope so. It’s awful what he’s doing to these girls,” said Bard, scuffing his boots on the welcome mat.

    “Interesting how we automatically assumed it’s a man,” said Thranduil.

    “You don’t seriously believe a woman could do this?”

    “No, I don’t, but it says a lot about the male sex at large.”

    “Man or woman, they need to be stopped,” said Bard.

    They walked up to the second floor together. Once, they might have gone separate ways, but they both went back to the library without voicing the decision. Bard switched his laptop back on and Thranduil wandered above in the gallery, humming quietly. Bard watched him for a little while. His fingers tracing the spines of books and the gallery railing. Every step, every touch, and every movement was perfectly fluid, each one falling into another.

    "I can't find the book I want," he said into the quiet.

    "Which book is it?" said Bard.

    "'The Portrait of a Young Man as an Artist'. I used to read it when I was young."

    Bard looked up from his laptop and cast around for the book. 

    "Is that it? On the writing desk?"

    Thranduil climbed down the ladder and went to retrieve it.

    "Oh, yes it is. But how did it get here? I don't remember taking it out..."

    "Perhaps one of the kids did," said Bard quickly, wondering if a _different_ Thranduil might have forgotten to put the book back after reading it earlier that day.   

    Bard watched Thranduil out the corner of his eye. He took a few steps towards Bard, but then backtracked, looking nervous. His gaze flickered to the piano and he went over to it, lifting the lid and stroking the keys.

    Bard shut his laptop.

    “Do you play?” he asked, the repetition of the question echoing though the shelves.

    Thranduil sat heavily on the seat, setting his book atop the instrument. “No,” he said.

    “You never learned?” Bard already knew the answer.

    “I learned, but I always hated it. I didn’t think it was a useful way to preoccupy my hands.”

    Bard stood up and walked over. His hands hovered over Thranduil’s, lingering on their softness.

    “You thought slicing up cadavers was better?” he said, chuckling.

    A smile pulled at Thranduil’s lips. His hands left the piano keys and crept under Bard’s shirt, his thumb following patterns and grooves.

    “They’re good for other things too,” he said.

    Bard gave a shaky laugh as Thranduil danced over a sensitive spot and tickled him. He sat down on the seat as well and his fingers found the piano keys.

    “May I?” he said.

    Thranduil nodded.

    Bard returned to the piece he had played the first time. He brought it forward, into the present, where things were lighter and kinder.

    It was a violence that they could not reconcile the past, but sometimes it did not matter, like when they sat this way, quiet and alone, and the violence felt abstract. In spite of all the bad things that had happened, they had found each other, and that was enough.

    “You’re rusty,” said Thranduil.

    “I know,” said Bard. “I haven’t had the luxury of a piano for a very long time.”

    “Now you do. I want to hear it play through the house again.”

    Bard stopped playing. “The acoustics in here are terrible.”

    Thranduil hummed a laughing tune. “Shall we have it put back where it belongs?”

    “There’s a spot by the balcony where I think it could go,” said Bard bravely.

    “Don’t be rash.” Thranduil was pale, but he persevered through his trauma.

    “I’ll be whatever I please. And I want it by the balcony. It won’t fit anywhere else.”

    Thranduil pondered this for a moment. “We could move it downstairs to the parlour, instead. There’s plenty of room there.”

    “But that’s your part of the house.”

    “You’re being funny. Bard, you can’t make me ask you to move in with me.”

    “Sure I can.”

    “Will you move in with me?”

    “It’s a big step, don’t you think?”

    Thranduil hit him.

    Bard smiled. “Alright, I’ll move in with you.”

    “Keep playing.”

    He set his fingers on the keys and picked up the music. Thranduil’s hair fell across his shoulder as he rested his head there, and the violence was abstract.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It was quite a journey and I wish the story could be longer, but I simply didn't have the time to develop it fully. It started out as a hastily-typed memo on my phone on the way home from the city, but it's grown quite a bit from there. I might continue it someday, but for now I really have to get back to my other projects as they've been left dormant for about two months while I fretted over this one.  
> I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know if you did, as it would mean the world.
> 
> Merry Christmas Jordan! I hope it's a safe and happy one, with plenty of smiles and good food.


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